It's been a month since William had burned the souls of demons that still thought blowing life into the organization that should have been put down decades ago is profitable. All they manage will be bringing their deaths closer to them.

And within a month, he realised that he might not have to be the one doing it. In fact, there seemed to be a special group of people who were assigned to deal with the shady parts of society.

And deep down, William —because yes, that what his name was, so he was adamant on holding onto it— felt somehow relieved.

But then again, they had gone after him as well. He was the bad guy, he knew that. But he didn't want to be the bad guy. And in no way would he go with them, for all he knew, they could be something like HYDRA.

No, it was safer to be alone. Besides, he realised being alone and doing what he wanted was actually pretty nice.

It was freedom in it's purest form. If he wanted to walk in the middle of the night, eat when he became hungry, drink when he became thirsty, choose his clothes, sit on a bench, watch the world pass by— he could. There was no one to stop him, no one to give him orders. In a way, it was... Exhilarating. But on the other hand, it was confusing.

It was a mess. The world was a mess. There weren't just a way to buy tickets and walk on a train or a bus, they had some stupid cards that demanded ID's. There were hoards of tourists taking pictures on every street, cars speeding by, paperwork just to get a room in a motel. There was chaos. He had been in such a disciplined environment for so long, that this kind of commotion was truly just a headache.

But no, he was going to... He was going to adjust.

They had found him two weeks ago, it had been a slow night and he had been sitting on a park bench, looking ducks. Wondering how they could exist in such a toxic place. Until he realised everything had gone unnaturally still and quiet. And then he had smelt them, there was a thing with agents, a certain smell that always gave them away.

Number one was the smell of gunpowder, you couldn't hide that. No one could. The second was the smell of excitement and adrenaline and disinfectant spray. It reeked of clean attire and gun oil.

He had fled, of course, they had seen him, or his shadow to be precise. And he had seen them. There had been only two, maybe more, but he had detected two. A male and a female. He had dodged an arrow on his way to an underground club, a bloody arrow.

He wasn't completely sure why he had been shot with an arrow, but he supposed the world had changed and the people with it.

It hadn't been hard to lose them, but they had found him, what stops them from finding him again?

Two weeks he had been quiet, and he had done a little research during his time in hiding. There had been plenty of information.
It amazed him how much information had just been tossed into the web, and he immediately found answers to most of his questions.

The people who he had run into called themselves Avengers, some kind of group of heroes. Tbe world had gone through so much, that William thought

How odd, heroes are the fantasy of children. They might be protectors, maybe, but every hero has a shadow side. You don't become a hero by being only the good guy. That's just not how the world works.

He was perched on the rooftop, there was perfect spot where he could hide away should it start raining. He didn't like cold, but he was used to it. He could adapt. He had to.

The surface was rough as he pulled the box closer to himself. His bag with clothes, some fruit and grenades was resting next to him, against the wall behind him. He felt one of the knives that had been ducked into his boot grazing his ankle, he needed to find a more comfortable sheat for it.

He started at the box, he had dragged it along with him for a long time. was it time to finally open it?

No, no it wasn't. He knew he wasn't ready, he knew he needed more time to just think, to just let his memories come to him, but he also knew he could keep dragging it along with him forever.

So there he was, sitting on the roof of an apartment that John owned, he would look, like John said. Like John allowed him to. He would dig into the things and once he was done, he would return them. John said he had a daughter, Elisa. And William —how odd it was, to have a name. To have something that truly belonged to him— knew these things belonged to the child, or woman, whoever that was.

He traced his finger over the top, it was sealed with duck tape. John probably hadn't thought about taking it out ever again, but there he was, a ghost from Johns past. Tearing into it like a hungry dog, yearning to just remember.
He slid the knife out of his boot, the same one that had been bothering him before, twirled it in between his fingers and slid the sharp end through the tape. He slid the knife back, opening the box before he could change his mind.

The first thing that he saw was a hat, it was clean, but he could see the faded edge as if someone had repeatedly scratched it or slid their fingers over it. He took it out, inspecting it closely before the smell of it reached his senses.

Soil, dust, antiseptics, mold.

He sneezed, placing the green coloured hat over his bag so it wouldn't get dirty. This hat, he thought, had been through hell and back.

There was a pile of pictures being held together by a thin rubber band. He held them carefully, almost afraid they would neither crumble into dust it for away in the breeze.
The first picture was of John Lawford, he could recognise him immediately. It was black and white and the up left corner seemed to have a large coffee stain on it, taking over it one-fifth of the small picture. Lawfords eyes we're dull on the picture, the furthest thing of the lively green he... He thinks he remembers.

He placed it under the pile, studying the next one. It was a family photo, John was wearing his military clothes and he could see medals pinned on his chest. A woman with big white hair was standing next to him, face void of emotion as they stared into the camera. The woman hands were on a small girls shoulders.

He looked over a next one, flinching visibly as a headache suddenly rammed against his skull. His eyes were red as he tried to gulp down the pain, hard eyes scanning the black and white picture.

There were three people standing rigid beside each other, holding rifles and helmets in hand. The scenery was too foggy to really identify a place, all he could see were a couple of pine trees.
There was Johnathan Lawford and him, himself. William.

He had reminded himself that it was him, yet... It wasn't.

He studied his features carefully, somewhat startled to see such... Youth. He looks so young. He could tell it was him, no doubt. But it was unreal, it meant that he had a past, had something worth remembering.

But this picture was so old. How old was he exactly? He knew the state of being frozen really didn't allow him to age that much, but he was old. What really bothered him about the picture was his stance in it, sure it was right, but it was as if he wasn't paying enough attention. Who exactly was he back then?

The third man had no name.

He couldn't recall a thing that involved him. He had a gentle look in his eyes as he stood beside William. He could tell the man was around 5'8 ft tall and had dark eyes along with the same coloured hair.

But the hammering behind his eyes made him put the pictures away. Looking them hurt because he knew there were stories behind those pictures, being those faces. No doubt he knew about them, but the memories were just locked. And it was as if they were trying to break free in his mind.

But it was painful, and pain, even though something he was almost immune to, was something he wanted to let go of.

There are people who can't imagine life with constant pain.
But he couldn't imagine a life without it.

There was always something that reminded him of it, some nights his back burned, some days his right shoulder throbbed as if someone kept stabbing it over and over again. Other times his head felt as if it was about to explode. So yes, he was no stranger to pain, but the little while he was free from it, was almost like a blessing.

He grabbed a leather-bound journal, worn, used, slightly faded and the edges were crumpled.

1941
Somewhere in this bloody war zone.

My brother returned with new clothes and we found hidden moonshine in the bundle. It was strong. I can still smell it in the tent, the arse chugged it all and now I must cover for him. Bloody idiot that one...

William blinked, drinking in the information that seemed useless. The handwriting was messy on some pages, neat on others. Some pages were ripped out and some had nothing at all.

So the soldier allowed himself to get lost in Johnathan Lawford's personal journal.

So someone added it to their library that was named "not going to get updated probably."

Surprise bish, it got updated 🧐🥳

Rant time.

It's been so hard to write, because I feel like im not doing justice for William. I feel like im not showing the inner pain he feels and I just don't think im doing good enough if a job at expressing the inner turmoil.

I just ain't know how the hell can I write about a one-hundred-year-old soldier who has amnesia.

Also, I've had terrible migraines this last month mixed with numerous panic attacks so im sorry for not being able to update. Life gets this way some times.

But y'all stay positive, focus on the future and remember that this lil author over here's cares about you all 💚

All the love
K