Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 10-13/?
The sun had long since traded with the moon when Alfred woke; his head throbbed with a pain, a side-effect of Ivan’s ‘gift,’ assuredly. Groaning, the American fumbled for his glasses, swiping his hand indiscriminately across the night stand. Finding the frames, he slipped them onto his nose, briefly pinching the bridge to try to deaden the pressure. Dazedly, he realized a note was also resting on the table, addressed to him in a slanted, curvy hand.
My dear little patriot,
While I wished I could be here when you woke, urgent business demanded my attention this morning. Take this time to rest and regain your strength, my doll; I will be back by nightfall.
Ivan
Stifling the urge to rip the message to shreds, Alfred re-read it, having been too sleepy to fully grasp the meaning.
He was alone.
Tossing back the covers, the blonde stumbled to his feet, swaying momentarily before staggering to what he assumed to be the bathroom. Resting he hands on the smooth marble surface, he inhaled a shaking breath, nausea bubbling in his empty stomach. Gaining the strength to look upwards, his eyes met their reflection.
Shoulder length golden tresses grazed his shirt, the hair waving brilliantly. His eyes looked large behind the modern frames, the azure shining magnificently through the lenses. He had always been tall, but never so slim. Each bone in his face was defined and curved, visible through careful training and care. Muscles ridged his abdomen, rippling along the sculpted flesh. And he was so pale… Icy white skin seemed to glow in the mirror, pink, ample lips contrasting with alabaster.
Who was this person?
Fingers trailed down the shining surface, mouth slighty parted in shock as two halves met, tips separated only by glass. The American bit his trembling lip as his eyes met the floor.
This was Ivan’s Alfred.
And damned if he wasn’t beautiful.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, he left the room, searching for clothes; if he was going to find information, he would need to talk to the people, the real people.
Finding the armoire, he ripped the doors open and pushed through the hangers; he didn’t have much time. A grimace smeared across his face at the sole sight of martial dress; he knew he wouldn’t get the right response if he was dressed like that. He needed to look as inconspicuous as possible.
Not that he knew what that looked like.
His hand paused as he brushed something unfamiliar; a bag was shoved in the very back of the closet, obviously forgotten for lack of use. Pulling it out, he peeked at the contents; it would have to do.
Pulling on the heavy black pants, he stuffed the legs into a pair of old, scuffed military boots, no longer used for that reason. He jammed a thick, creamy sweater over his head, momentarily appreciating its warmth as he groped the shoelaces into a clumsy knot. He wrapped a weighty scarf around his neck, burying his chin in the coarse wool as he shrugged the battered coat over his shoulders; he secured the loose, broken buttons, abandoning those that wouldn’t fasten. Drawing the hood up around his head, he looked in the small dresser mirror; now shrouded by the fabric, it was now harder to recognize his visage, hair pulled back by the fur and the scarf hiding his mouth.
Turning now to the bed, Alfred positioned a few pillows under the sheets and quilt to resemble a body, though pulled the covers high. Drawing the bed draperies halfway, the scene was fairly realistic; it was only meant as a precaution if others came to check on him.
Thinking quickly, Alfred also grabbed several medals off of his suit and his nametag; if the guards caught him, he didn’t want to be totally defenseless, even though Ivan would be furious at him. Stuffing them into his pocket, his hands brushed a familiar object. Smiling, he removed the chain and draped it around his neck, letting his chest warm the cool metal tags.
He was ready.
Slowly opening the door to his room, he carefully flicked his eyes to either end of the hallway. No one. Slipping through the opening, he carefully shut it behind him, moving quickly and deftly along the walls. He didn’t know where he was going, but down was a good start.
After traveling down many flights of lonely stairs, Alfred reached what he assumed to be the bottom floor. Pressed against the panels, he felt a smile creep across his face at the sight of a door. Taking a tentative step, he prepared to make a run for it.
“Stop!”
Alfred froze, his heart nearly exploding in his chest.
“Michael, you bastard, you’re guzzling down my booze ration for an entire fucking month!”
A barely inaudible sigh of relief passed the American’s lips as he snuck behind a corner, watching the two approaching soldiers pass by his exit.
“Come off it,” Michael replied, licking his lips as his companion grabbed back his flask, “It’s cold as a bitch out there and I needed a pick-me up; so shoot me.”
“Yeah, yeah; next time get your own goddamn pick-me up. And could you be any louder? Want to alert the entire fucking fort I’m the only shmoe with liquor left?” The other solider scoffed.
“Dan, the only people here are the other guards and the General,” Michael said, eyeing the container again, “and it’s not like he’s going to come down here.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s recovering; collapsed in a meeting.”
“Again?” the other asked incredulously, “Shit, man, I’d hate to have his job. What exactly does he do?”
“He’s the master strategist, dumbass,” the first replied tartly, “he plans all of the Master General’s movements. He works practically non-stop to come up with the best plans; and y’know what? They’ve never failed; haven’t lost a single battle yet.”
Alfred felt his throat close over; he was the one was planning the attacks?
“Damn,” Dan whistled appreciatively, tucking the flask inside his coat.
“You bet; it’s funny though,” Michael said in a tone tinged with false boredom, “he rarely, if ever leaves the fort.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Well, after the incident,” the first said, trailing off, “Y’know, my throat’s a little dry; if I only had something to drink…”
“Oh, fuck you,” Dan replied, stalking off. Laughing raucously, the first soldier followed him, leaving the hall as quickly as they came.
He couldn’t breathe.
What-what had happened? What could he have possibly done to never want leave the fort again? Just thinking about remembering made his hands shake uncontrollably, the tremors quickly spreading; he decided to leave that memory for another time.
Taking a calming inhale and exhale, Alfred carefully peaked around the corner once more; seeing nothing, he bolted for the door, opening it as quietly as he could while going as quickly as possible. And finally, the heavy wood shut behind him, sealing him off from the madness.
White; snowdrifts feet high were blown around the rather barren landscape, small flurries stinging his face. The overcast skies were heavy with moisture, giving an ominous, dark look to the land. Alfred sucked in a frigid breath, his lungs contracting painfully.
His ribs hurt.
Wrapping his arm around his chest, he gripped tightly; he wasn’t going to be controlled with a leash of pain, not anymore.
Spying a muddied path among the mountains of snow, Alfred followed the slushy gravel, having melted due to heavy foot-traffic. He passed through a forest of hibernating trees, their naked branches only adding to the harsh, gloomy air. Not a sound, other than that of the lightly falling snow, was made or heard, a silence that only the dead should be treated to.
Shivering, Alfred pulled his hood tighter, burying his hands in the grubby coat pockets; it was the coldest he could ever remember being. There was no warmth, no sun…
No life.
He walked for almost half-an-hour before seeing glowing lights in the distance; a town, perhaps?
Quickening his pace, hope blooming in his breast, he soon came upon the ‘town.’
It was a collection of run down shacks, a meager defense against the vicious wind and crafty white powder. The only stable looking building appeared to be a tavern, in which several lights shone brightly through the grimy windows. While no one walked the streets, several people milled around the outside of the bar, eagerly peeking in the windows and leaning by the door.
Their faces were serious, cracked and split from the cold, frozen into permanent grimaces. The clothes, if they could even be called that, were shabby and thin, as many layers as possible heaped over bony shoulders.
These people wouldn’t talk to him.
Even the most threadbare outfit he could find looked like silk and lace compared to what little these people had. The American felt sick and hollow inside, his heart beating loudly in his chest.
The new world order, huh?
Unable to look at the frozen figures anymore, he shuffled as discretely as possible to the empty alley beside the building, hoping to avoid contact. As he passed under the window, broken bits of conversation floated out to him.
“God fucking dammit!” a voice grumbled from above, “Can’t even feel my hands anymore; still won’t stop me from wrapping these cold, useless things around Ivan’s neck and-”
“Lovi, you need to be quiet!” a familiar voice hissed, “The meeting will be starting soon, all right? Do you want to alert the entire fucking countryside to our headquarters?”
Eyes widened in recognition, the air becoming even colder as Alfred breathed in.
Spain?
The usual cheery tone, one that radiated pure joy and happiness, was saturated with malice and ice, snapping at his companion with curses and hate in his voice.
And he was talking to…Romano?
“Yeah, yeah, whatever tomato bastard,” the southern Italian murmured in a low tenor, though Alfred could tell Romano wanted something; but what was it? A harsh bark of laughter answered his retort.
“I can’t even remember what a tomato tastes like, Lovi,” the Spaniard said darkly, “But I’ll be sure to thank the one person who made that possible.”
“Antonio,” Romano barley whispered, his tone overflowing with sorrow.
The happiness of finding a few his fellow countries alive did not alleviate his quickly sinking heart; what had they become in his absence? What had he forced them become?
He felt nauseatingly sick; swallowing hard, he took a ragged breath, his hand covering his mouth.
What had he done?
“All right everyone, sit down and be quiet; we’re starting,” a voice said, loud enough to carry across the room. It was worn and raspy, but power behind the tone was strong and unflinching, “Let’s get down to business. Battle plans; what do we have?”
“Not a damn thing,” a man snarled, a loud pound resounding on wood, “These plans can’t compare to what that bastard’s got.”
“He’s right,” a thin alto added, “Ivan’s plans have yet to fail; anywhere. He hasn’t suffered a single loss in this entire debacle.”
A murmur rippled through the attendants, muttered grunts and sounds of agreement.
“But they aren’t his plans.”
The shifting of chairs and an uncomfortable silence.
“We all know very well,” the tight voice continued, “who we should credit those to.” The amount of hatred present in that voice made Alfred want to retch.
Suddenly, a screech ripped through the room.
“At-at the window! There’s someone there!” a frightened soprano choked, her tone trembling with fright.
Looking upwards, the American realized that his hood was visible through the glass, having in order to better hear.
Fuck.
Stumbling into a sprint, Alfred ran for all he was worth, his chest heaving and legs burning as his eyes watered from the cold.
He couldn’t be caught.
He barely felt something whiz by his left ear, causing him to come to a skidding stop. Reaching for his cheek, his eyes met with the sight of scarlet, sticky and hot, across his fingertips. Turning, he saw a large group of people, their hands tightly gripping a weapon of choice, all leveled at him.
A man with a thick black eye-patch over one eye stared him down, his short brown hair flapping about in the wind; his gun still smoking, the man pulled back the hammer.
“I don’t appreciate cowards,” the man said, his eyes frigid, “though, I suppose since your one of his sniveling dogs, there’s no helping that, is there? Face your enemy like a true warrior,” he added, aiming, “or rot in the ditch.”
Slowly backing away, Alfred held up his hands, trying to convince the crowd of his innocence; he wasn’t prepared to be grabbed from behind, arms catching under his own.
Click.
Before he even realized it, the American had flipped the man over his head, the latter’s skull making a sickening crack on the ice. Using the gained momentum, Alfred spun, pinning his attacker to the frozen dirt, his boot hard against the man’s fleshy throat.
Instinctual.
Programmed.
Planned.
Glancing downward, Alfred gave a shocked look at the now bleeding, sputtering male.
What-what just happened?
Bitter, rebounding laughter reverberating across the wintry grounds.
“Ahaha-How quaint; how ironic; we have a treat for ourselves today, ladies and gentlemen, oh, do we,” someone said cruelly, sneering.
“Soldier Number: 000000001,” a different, broken montone spoke, “Code name: The Glorious Strategist; Rank: General; Name-”
As the American looked up, his hood unintentionally slid backwards, the waves of gold fluttering around his shoulders as cobalt eyes might furious, steely glares.
“Alfred?”