Months had passed since I last heard from Steve. Agent Carter and I had been kept busy in London, handling our various operations, but now we found ourselves in Italy—just five miles from the front. Word had reached me about the Senator's latest demands for Steve—performances, songs, and the like. I couldn't help but feel frustrated. Steve was so much more than a circus monkey performing for a crowd, but at least he was being productive in some way. Still, I couldn't shake the image of his most recent show, where the crowd devoured him like vultures. It made my skin crawl, watching him reduced to that.

The rain had been relentless, coming down no stop from the sky, soaking the ground beneath our feet. Puddles had formed all around the base, turning the once-dry earth into a slick, soggy mess. My heels clicked sharply against the wooden stage as I walked over to where Steve sat, sketching quietly. He was so absorbed in his notepad that he didn't even notice my approach. I leaned in a little closer, and couldn't help but feel sad for him. Of all things, Steve had drawn a performance monkey riding a unicycle. It was a perfect reflection of how he felt—trapped in a ridiculous act that didn't define who he truly was.

"That's actually a pretty good sketch," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy rain. Steve instantly snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Karla. Hi," he finally said, his gaze intense as it met mine. I offered a small smile in return. "What are you doing here?" he asked, watching me step forward in my uniform, the brown trench coat draped over me to shield against the rain.

"Officially, I'm not," I replied, stepping closer and standing behind Steve. He turned to look at me, his face still filled with confusion. "Unofficially, I came to see you." A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as if the idea of me coming to see him was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it was the simple fact that a girl had come to visit him at all, something he clearly hadn't expected.

"I'm sorry I didn't fight harder for you," I said, the weight of regret settling in. It felt like I hadn't done enough to stand up for him, especially with Phillips pulling the strings and benching him from the real fight.

"You don't have to apologize," Steve said, his voice steady. I walked to the edge of the stage and gently lowered myself down beside him, wanting to meet his gaze. "I think it was brave of you to stand your ground," he continued, and his words brought a soft smile to my face.

"Still," I said, my voice carrying a hint of defeat. "You would have been amazing out there, I just know it." The feeling I got from Steve was undeniable—he was someone who would fight for what was right, for freedom, and never leave anyone behind. That's what I saw when I looked into his eyes.

"Thank you," Steve replied softly, his blue eyes holding mine with sincerity. "At least I'm doing something," he retorted a hint of defiance in his tone. He knew it was better than being stuck in a lab, getting poked and prodded.

"And those are your only two options? A circus monkey or a lab rat?" I challenged, my voice firm as I arched a brow at him. "You're more than that, Steve. You're the symbol of what this country needs—strength, courage, and someone willing to fight for those who can't fight for themselves. The world needs men like you on the battlefield, not on a stage." My voice, though soft, carried a stern tone, as if I were trying to motivate him to take action.

Steve took in my words, his expression shifting as his brows softened, as though my conviction had struck a chord within him.

"Think about it," I said with a small nod, watching as Steve remained silent, his uncertainty in speaking to a woman still evident. The sound of approaching footsteps reached my ears, and I instinctively knew it could only be Peggy.

I stepped off the stage and made my way around to the back, my gaze naturally drawn to the nearby medical tent. The faint sounds of groans and murmurs drifted through the rain, a stark reminder of the suffering within. Even from a distance, the weight of their pain pressed against me, rattling deep in my bones.

I paused, my eyes lingering on the figures moving through the tent, and my chest tightened. It was always the same. War after war, battle after battle—the faces changed, but the agony never did. Men were torn apart, lives shattered, and families left with nothing but memories. I'd seen it all before, too many times. The same cycle of blood and loss, of people fighting for causes that left them broken in the end.

The smell of damp earth and blood felt too familiar, like an old ghost haunting me. I clenched my fists, trying to ground myself, but the memories wouldn't leave. Every war was the same—leaving bodies behind and survivors wishing they hadn't made it. What was it all for? What did any of it mean when this was always the outcome?

I began to walk, not away from the tent, but toward it, as if an invisible thread pulled me forward, binding me to some unspoken duty. My mother was forever intertwined with death, and in my own way, so was I. I wasn't there to stop it—rarely could anyone truly stop it—but to offer something else. A comforting hand in the final moments, a silent presence when the time came to let go.

The rain had already soaked through the coat I held over my head as a feeble shield. Pushing aside the flap of the tent, I stepped inside, immediately engulfed by the sharp, metallic tang of blood. It hung thick in the air, stronger than anything else, pressing down like a weight on my senses.

My eyes swept across the crowded tent, taking in the scene of chaos and despair. Nearly every cot was occupied, with only one or two left empty. Soldiers lay wounded, their blood staining the thin sheets, while nurses and doctors moved between them, doing all they could. But amidst the controlled frenzy, there were others—still, cold, lifeless—victims who hadn't survived the fight for their lives.

I walked slowly down the narrow aisle, passing rows of beds on either side until I stopped halfway. My gaze fell to my right, drawn to a soldier lying motionless, his breaths shallow and laboured. His face was pale, his body broken. One leg was gone, and the rough bandages were a grim reminder of the battle he'd fought. They had done all they could for him, yet it wasn't enough. Now he was alone, left to face his final moments in solitude.

I moved to the side of his cot, my boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. His frail, sweat-soaked body lay nearly motionless, his head turned slightly toward me. Beads of sweat clung to his ruffled, matted hair, and the pungent odour of blood and decay hung heavily in the air. The harsh reality of war had consumed him, leaving a hollow shell where a vibrant soldier once stood.

Lowering myself carefully onto the edge of the bed, I let my gaze linger on his face—a face marked by pain, exhaustion, and fear. Slowly, I reached for his hand. It was caked with dried blood, the skin cracked and pale, but I didn't hesitate. My fingers wrapped gently around his, cradling it in my palm.

As if sensing the touch, his hand tightened faintly around mine, a reflex born of desperation or perhaps gratitude. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, but his eyes fluttered weakly, acknowledging the connection.

"You're not alone," I murmured softly, my voice low and steady. I could see the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes, as though my words had provided some small comfort. I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice to keep the moment intimate. "Tell me about yourself, soldier," I asked, hoping to shift his focus away from the pain and fear. I wanted to give him something, anything, to hold onto in his final moments—something more than the grim reality of war.

"I... I," he began, his voice barely a whisper, trembling as though even forming words required more strength than he had left. It was clear he was struggling, caught between the effort to speak and the weight of his fading energy. "I was a farmer's son," he managed weakly, his voice barely carrying above a whisper. "My daddy... he fought in the first war, just eighteen when he went." A sudden, violent cough racked his frail body, and I noticed the crimson specks of blood that followed, staining his already pale lips.

I tightened my grip on his hand, firm yet gentle, enough to let him know I wasn't leaving his side. His voice cracked as he continued, "He died before I was sent off... I just wanted to make him proud." 

"I'm certain he's immensely proud of you," I said softly, my voice steady and reassuring. I watched as the tension in his face eased, his features softening with a faint sense of peace. It was as though he truly believed my words, accepting them as undeniable truth.

"Please don't leave," he whispered, his voice trembling with fear as tears slid silently down his face, fully aware that death was drawing near. His hand tightened around mine suddenly, a desperate, firm grip as he summoned every ounce of his remaining strength.

I hushed him softly, placing my other hand over our joined hands, creating a protective cradle around his trembling grip. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere," I assured him, my voice steady. A small smile played on my lips as I tried to comfort him. "Do you have a girl waiting for you? Of course, you do. A fine young man like you would. Tell me about her."

A faint smile graced his lips, fragile yet full of warmth. His eyes fluttered open and closed, as though he were conjuring her image in his mind. "Her name is Isabella," he murmured, his voice soft with affection. The name lingered on his tongue, bringing a flicker of light to his tired face, even as the dried blood cracked along the creases of his lips. 

"She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he said softly, his eyes staying open this time, gazing at nothing and yet seeing everything. "She has this laugh... oh, it's wonderful. It could light up anyone's day," he added, his smile growing brighter. A faint chuckle escaped his lips, as though her laughter was echoing in the corners of his mind, bringing him a brief, precious moment of joy.

Suddenly, the blare of a car horn cut through the air, causing me to turn my head towards the front of the tent. The second wave of injured soldiers had arrived, their grim procession beginning to unfold.

When I turned my attention back to the soldier, I realized with a heavy heart that he had passed. His hand lay limp in mine, his eyes still open, but there was a faint, peaceful smile on his lips—an expression as if he had spent his final moments reflecting on his brief but happy life.

At least he hadn't died alone in a foreign land, surrounded by the stench of death and decay. He had someone by his side, someone who stayed with him through his final moments, offering comfort in this bloody endless war...

I gently released my grip on his hand, allowing it to fall back to his side. The weight of the moment lingered in the air as I stood, my knees creaking slightly as I pushed myself up from the side of his bed. My eyes instinctively shifted to his tattered clothes, the fabric worn thin and stained with blood and dirt. Yet, something caught my attention—a small, weathered badge pinned to the front of his jacket.

I stepped closer to make out the numbers etched on the fabric—the 107th. A surge of recognition hit me. It was the same unit James was a part of—the 107th Infantry—a unit filled with men who had been sent off to fight. I felt a tightness in my chest as I stood there, staring at the badge. James could be out there, captured or even worse, dead. 

I took one last look at the forgotten soldier, my heart heavy, before I slowly retreated from the side of his bed. My boots made soft, muted thuds against the dirt floor as I walked away, feeling a weight in the pit of my stomach. The tent felt suffocating as I passed between rows of makeshift cots, each one bearing another face, another story, now lost to the horrors of war.

Reaching the entrance, I pulled aside the flaps of the tent, stepping into the heavy, relentless rain that drenched everything in its path. The downpour hit me immediately, cold and harsh as if the sky itself shared in the grief of what I had just witnessed. The rain splashed violently against the ground, soaking me through in mere moments.

Out in the open, men, battered and broken, were being helped off the jeep, some of them missing limbs, others with bloodied faces. Medics rushed to their sides, doing what they could in the grim circumstances, but there was only so much anyone could do. 

The mud squelched beneath my heels as I hurried through the relentless rain, each step making a soft, squishy sound. I didn't bother seeking shelter from the downpour; the rain. My hair, usually styled in the neat pin-up fashion I'd come to favour, hung loose now, just brushing my shoulders. Water clung to the ends of the damp strands, dripping down my face in steady rivulets.

Despite the storm, I pressed forward, the cold rain soaking through my clothes. My focus never wavered as I reached the entrance to the tent, where Colonel Phillips stood, clearly engrossed in whatever grim task he had at hand. I stepped inside, momentarily thankful for the refuge from the rain, but my mind was already far ahead, focused on the next steps I would have to take in this battlefield of chaos.

As I stepped into the tent, my eyes immediately found Steve and Peggy, already there just moments before me.

"Colonel Phillips," Steve greeted, his voice steady.

The Colonel glanced up from the papers he was signing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, if it isn't the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan. What is your plan today?" he asked, settling back in his chair as if it were just another day of business.

I moved quietly to Peggy's side, standing to her right, my gaze briefly flickering between Steve and the Colonel. The air was thick with the familiar tension of military orders and expectations, but underneath it all, there was something else, a sense of urgency that couldn't be ignored.

"I need the casualty list from Azzano," Steve said, his voice firm as he looked directly at Colonel Phillips. He was quickly piecing together the situation, realizing the injured men had come from the 107th.

Colonel Phillips raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You don't get to give me orders, son," he replied, his tone sharp, reminding Steve who was in charge.

Steve didn't falter. "I just need one name," he pressed, his urgency clear. "Sergeant James Barnes, 107th." His eyes locked onto Phillips, unwilling to back down until he had an answer.

"You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won't enjoy," Phillips said, his eyes narrowing as they shifted to Peggy, knowing she was the one who had informed Steve about the 107th.

"Please, Sir, just tell me if he's alive. B-A-R—"

"I can spell," Phillips interrupted sharply, cutting Steve off before he could finish spelling out James' last name. We all waited in tense silence as the Colonel's gaze drifted forward, his mind clearly working through the stack of papers he'd signed that day, trying to recall the name.

Without a word, he turned in his chair and stood up, facing away from us. "I've signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count," he muttered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "But the name does sound familiar... I'm sorry."

As the words slipped from Phillips' mouth, my heart sank into my stomach. The look on Steve's face told me everything. James meant so much to him, and I too had a connection with him. I watched the Colonel turn his gaze back to Steve, the silence between them thick with the weight of the news.

"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?" Steve asked after a long pause, his voice steady but laced with a hint of hope that refused to fade, even as he processed the possibility that his friend might be gone.

"Yes, it's called 'Winning the war,'" Phillips replied sharply, his tone dismissive as though the idea of rescuing his men was not even worth considering.

"But if you know where they are, why not at least—"

"They're thirty miles behind the lines, through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl," Phillips snapped, his words cutting deep, belittling Steve for his idealism. He saw only the practicality of sacrifice, not the desperate determination to save anyone who could still be alive.

"I think I understand just fine," Steve said calmly, his voice unshaken. He knew arguing with Phillips wouldn't change anything, but he wasn't about to back down.

"Well, then understand it somewhere else," Phillips retorted as he started to walk past Steve, brushing him aside with his indifference. "If I read the posters correctly, you've got someplace to be in thirty minutes."

Steve didn't respond, his gaze fixed ahead. "Yes, Sir. I do," he said flatly, before turning on his heel and exiting the tent. Peggy and I exchanged a glance, both of us immediately sensing the same thing: Steve was planning to go to the Hydra base.

"If you both have something to say, right now is the perfect time to keep it to yourselves," Phillips muttered, almost as though he'd read our thoughts. But we remained silent, my attention returning to Peggy, whose expression mirrored my concern for Steve.

"Go help him," I whispered urgently to Peggy, making sure Phillips couldn't hear. She gave a quick nod and, without hesitation, moved toward the exit of the tent.

Though Steve might have been heading to the Hydra camp alone for now, I had a feeling he wouldn't be the only one there...

*********