Captured
Chapter 1: Captured
A soldier. Trapped in the body of an enemy soldier. Trapped in the mind of an enemy ruler. How could this story go wrong? Well, the soldier wasn’t trapped in the body of an enemy soldier. Nor was the soldier trapped in the mind of an enemy ruler. The soldier in question is being held captive by the enemy ruler.
His captor had long and greasy noir hair which was pulled into a bun. A man-bun. His eyes a shade of blue so dulled by time and his hobby of killing POWs that it was borderline grey. He wore a long, tan coat that was lined with fur. Which animal? The soldier couldn’t tell. The man also wore leather pants that stuck to his body, accenting his figure. And his face. He had a scar going through his eye and atop his cheek bone. He also sported a couple cuts here and there on his face, otherwise, he had a standard jock face. His jaw was shaped strongly and squarely. He had high cheekbones, but they were not accented well. Thin eyebrows and a permanent smirk on his face finished the ensemble. He was….senile, with his five foot five stature.
The soldier was being held with chains covered in scratches and engravings. He couldn’t read it, but he knew they were the marks of the Old Religion. The Old Religion. A religion thought to have died out centuries ago. Well, surprise, surprise, it wasn’t.
The soldier wore a set of camo combat pants which was paired with white t-shirt--which was bloody and torn and covered in soot and dirt from the time that the soldier had spent captured. The soldier also wore beige combat boots. The jacket that he had worn was nowhere in sight and his holster, guns, grenades, knives and other tactical gear were stripped from him and taken elsewhere.
Now, the soldier himself had hair that was the shade of a golden sun which aligns perfectly with his sun-kissed skin. His eyes were the color of a radiant sky, devoid of clouds. He was well built with his chest, biceps and thighs well-toned, and his abs made of steel. He sported a chiseled jaw and calloused hands. All in all, he was sculpted like a god: gold and perfect.
He was strapped to a chair. His hands were zip-tied behind him and the chair, and his legs were zip-tied to the legs of the chair. The soldier’s head lolled as he was still unconscious from his last bout with torture. In the darkest corner of the room, his captor stood with a knife in hand and observed the soldier. To the captor, the soldier didn’t seem like much. He may have been able to take down many of the goons that occupied the fortress, but he had still been captured and sedated.
The captor had been lost in thought for a while, although the soldier could not tell for how long since there was no window in the room that he was situated in. Now, the room itself seemed to be 20 feet by 30 feet. In the room, there are a variety of torture constructions and utensils. The room reeked of copper--which came from the blood that was spilled from the soldier during his torture sessions--and was covered in tarmac to not stain the floors. The soldier knew that it must have been some time because the blood on the captor’s fists were dried--from the time that the captor and his goons had tortured him and he had slipped into “unconsciousness.”
"He's not straining against his shackles," thought the captor. "Nor is he yelling anything. He just sits there, staring. Staring...he can’t be starring...the guy is unconscious.” That snapped the captor out of his “dream.”
“Awake,” he thought, “Well, the boss'll know what to do with him. After all, he killed the boss' son, Alexei. Boss'll make him pay." And with that, Cenred exited the room and started to stride towards the lion's den, so to speak.
Unknowing to Cenred, he had said these thoughts aloud, which were heard by his captive. The blond soldier smiled at the door. Arthur Rogers was on a mission and no one, not even Cenred or Red Skull, could stop him from achieving it: burning HYDRA to the ground.