Ashes of the Past #18

Nathan sat in the dimly lit room, the flickering light from a single bulb casting long shadows across his grim features. His dark eyes were fixed on the Foreigner's lifeless body slumped in the chair before him, bound tightly with ropes now stained with blood.

The man's head lolled forward, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, pooling on the cold concrete floor beneath. The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of sweat and desperation.

Nathan leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood barely audible over the pounding in his ears. His hands, still stained with the residue of his efforts, trembled slightly as he massaged his temples. He had managed to save Wolverine, pulling him back from the brink of death with a mix of sheer determination and grim resolve.

The Foreigner, against all odds, had clung to life just long enough for Silvija's Wildpack to arrive. Nathan had seized the opportunity, administering one of their Chitauri stims—a potent concoction designed to drag a person back from the grip of death.

It had worked, albeit briefly.

Nathan had dragged the Foreigner back to town, securing a secluded spot where he could conduct his interrogation without interruptions. The past four hours had been a grueling ordeal, marked by a relentless barrage of questions, threats, and, eventually, more brutal methods.

His voice had turned hoarse from the constant demands for information. His patience, a resource already in short supply, had worn thin with each passing minute.

He'd tried everything—playing good cop and bad cop, making promises of leniency, and even resorting to the more barbaric arts of persuasion. Yet, nothing had pierced the Foreigner's steely resolve.

The only snippet of information Nathan had managed to extract was a baffling one: the Foreigner's client hadn't paid for the operation. Instead, the Foreigner had footed the bill himself, a revelation that made little sense considering the man's mercenary nature.

Nathan's brow furrowed as he mulled over the information. The Foreigner wasn't known for philanthropy. He was a mercenary, driven by profit and efficiency. The idea that he would fund an entire operation out of his own pocket was almost laughable—except it wasn't. It gnawed at Nathan, the uncertainty of it all, the possibility that it could be a final, cruel joke meant to mislead.

But the Foreigner had sealed his own fate before Nathan could get to the bottom of it. In a final act of defiance, the man had bitten down hard on his own tongue, severing it and choking on his own blood before Nathan could stop him.

Nathan's fists clenched, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He stood slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. He approached the corpse, leaning in close as if the dead man might suddenly spill the truth now that it no longer mattered.

"You just couldn't give me one straight answer, could you?" Nathan muttered bitterly. "Had to take the easy way out."

Ever since Nathan awakened in this world, one relentless demon haunted his every step: the fear of death. His demise in his former life had been far from peaceful—a fire of unknown origin had claimed him in a blaze of agony, leaving him with a deep-seated dread.

The vivid memories of choking smoke and searing heat lingered in his mind like a permanent scar. In this new world, where the lines between comic lore and cinematic universes blurred, Nathan knew that death wasn't just a possibility; it was an impending certainty. Thanos would come, the universe's balance would be threatened, and no corner of the world would be safe from his reach.

The weight of inevitability pressed on Nathan's psyche. There was no hiding, no running from the cosmic juggernaut's eventual arrival. Though the odds were ostensibly a coin toss, Nathan wasn't inclined to leave his fate to chance.

He struggled, fought, and clawed his way toward becoming something stronger, something unbreakable. He knew that if he didn't steel himself, he would be just another casualty in the grand cosmic game. His journey wasn't about heroism or destiny—it was survival.

That resolve had taken root in him the day he ended Marino, a lowly gun thug, in his own apartment. The scene replayed in his mind often: the flicker of the blade, the slick warmth of blood on his hands, the way Marino's body crumpled in a final, gasping breath.

It was a pivotal moment—a boy killing a man to save his own life and those of fellow orphans. From that point, Nathan had continued to confront death head-on, again and again, even as the gnawing fear never fully dissipated. Each encounter left its mark, hardening his resolve and shaping him into a formidable force.

Nathan had begun this path at twelve, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. By the time he was a teenager, bodies littered the trail behind him as he helped Bellucci carve out dominance in Hell's Kitchen.

Nathan justified the bloodshed to himself: none of them were innocent.

Every corpse left in his wake belonged to someone who had it coming—criminals, thugs, people who lived by the sword. He had been judge, jury, and executioner, all in the name of survival.

But as the gang grew, its control over Hell's Kitchen solidified, Nathan found himself restless. Leading from the shadows, orchestrating operations, and eliminating threats had become routine. It no longer challenged him.

The monotony of dominance dulled his edge, and Nathan knew he had to move on before he became complacent, before the fear that drove him turned into a comfort that might lull him into a false sense of security.

So, at sixteen, he left the gang behind and embarked on a journey that would test him further. He ventured into war-torn countries, immersing himself in chaos and conflict, sharpening his skills in the crucible of real combat. The echoes of war, the clatter of gunfire, and the cries of the wounded became his symphony, each battle a reminder that he was still alive, still fighting.

When he finally returned to America at seventeen, Nathan was as a different person. Hardened, experienced, and with a deeper understanding of his place in this fractured world. But the fear still lingered, a constant companion whispering in his ear.

Ultimately, it wasn't enough. The restless hunger within Nathan demanded more—a deeper purpose, a greater challenge. That's when he made the decision to enlist in the military, seeking an outlet that could forge his fragmented resolve into something unbreakable.

He joined the army, throwing himself into training with an almost obsessive fervor. Every drill, every exercise became a test of his limits, a crucible to reshape his fear into steel. Nathan aced every course, his instructors taking note of his precision, his discipline, and the cold determination that radiated from him like a quiet storm.

Ranger School came next, followed by an array of complementary courses designed to push even the most hardened soldiers to their breaking points. Nathan thrived in the grueling environments, where survival was a daily battle, and weakness was a liability.

He earned his way into elite units, his exemplary performance earning him a series of rapid promotions and the respect of his peers. When deployment finally came, it was as if he had been waiting for it all his life.

Killing, this time, wasn't just about survival or profit. It was sanctioned, organized, and imbued with the weight of duty.

The military gave him a framework, a justification for the violence that had long become a part of his existence. With each mission, each successful operation, Nathan found it easier to detach, to compartmentalize the humanity of his enemies and focus solely on the objective. And along the way, something began to change.

Bit by bit, Nathan felt pieces of himself slipping away—fragments of conscience, slivers of empathy—lost in the fog of war.

His prowess didn't go unnoticed. The medals and commendations began to pile up, a testament to his efficiency and effectiveness in the field. Nathan became a soldier others looked up to, a model of what the military hoped to cultivate. But the recognition felt hollow.

Each medal felt like a reminder of how far he'd come from the boy who had once feared the fire.

It wasn't long before he was approached for something more specialized—a covert operation under the codename Cerberus. The offer was steeped in secrecy, whispered in the shadowed corridors of command. Nathan was beyond caring at that point.

The missions offered by Cerberus were more intense, more perilous, promising to dull the ever-present ache of his trauma with the adrenaline of high-risk assignments. Conflict had become his drug of choice, a means of numbing the past, rather than sharpening his future.

He accepted, and in the dark world of Cerberus, Nathan did things that haunted him long after the missions ended. Operations that blurred the lines between necessity and atrocity, acts he would later recognize as some of his greatest shames. Yet, at the time, they were nothing more than routine—a regular Monday in the life of a soldier buried under the weight of his own detachment.

Before Cerberus was disbanded, Nathan was transferred to another elite task force—Thunderbolt. Under the command of General Thaddeus Ross, Thunderbolt was a unit designed to address a growing concern: the metahuman threat.

Their mission was clear-cut and ruthless—hunt down dangerous mutants and those trafficking in alien technology. It was a grim task, and one that required a certain moral flexibility Nathan had long since mastered.

In Thunderbolt, Nathan's skills were honed to a razor's edge, his targets no longer just human combatants, but beings of extraordinary abilities, and death dealers who sought to exploit the dangerous technology.

Surprisingly, most of Thunderbolt's operations were justified, at least on the surface. Nathan's targets were often dangerous mutants and terrorist organizations dealing in alien technology—threats that warranted swift and decisive action. But justification didn't mean much to Nathan then. His world had narrowed to the mission, the objective, and the cold comfort of routine violence. The morality of his targets was a distant concern, overshadowed by the immediate need to complete the task.

Then came the operation that would become the greatest shame of his life—the nightmare that continued to haunt him every waking moment.

It was supposed to be a routine mission. The intel was solid, or so they thought, and the objective was clear: a group of rogue mutants holed up in an abandoned factory in Ukraine.

Nathan had been assigned to reconnaissance, tasked with assessing the situation before the task force moved in. He watched the dilapidated structure from a ridge, noting its weak points and potential entry routes. His sharp eyes caught glimpses of movement through the shattered windows—shadows flickering against the dim light inside.

The task force's detection device, a rudimentary knockoff of the X-Men's Cerebro, pinged with the presence of a dozen mutants within. Nathan analyzed the readings and weighed the risks. Infiltration would be dangerous. The factory's layout made it a death trap for any ground team, a web of blind corners and narrow corridors perfect for an ambush.

He made the call for an airstrike, a decision that seemed rational at the time—a strategic move to neutralize a potential threat without endangering his team.

The strike came swiftly. The roar of jets slicing through the sky was followed by the deafening thud of ordnance dropping onto the factory, reducing it to a heap of smoldering rubble in moments. Dust and debris clouded the air, obscuring the carnage below.

Nathan watched from his perch as the once-standing structure crumbled into a smoking ruin, its threat seemingly neutralized.

But then, something went wrong. Communications cut out—a technical error, a freak glitch in the system. The directive to retreat never reached him, leaving Nathan alone in the aftermath, with only the crackling static of his comms for company.

Driven by a sense of duty—or perhaps something more obsessive—he descended from his vantage point, determined to confirm the mission's success with his own eyes.

As he approached the shattered remains of the factory, a chill crept down his spine. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning metal and concrete, the silence broken only by the distant hiss of settling debris. Nathan moved through the rubble cautiously, his boots crunching on broken glass and scorched brick.

He made his way deeper into what had once been the heart of the facility, his weapon drawn, every nerve on edge.

And then he saw them.

Scattered amidst the wreckage were bodies—small, twisted forms buried under the rubble. Nathan's breath caught in his throat as the horror of the scene unfolded before him. These weren't rogue operatives or battle-hardened mutants. They were children.

Their lifeless faces bore traces of fear and confusion, some marked by the telltale signs of mutation—extra limbs, unusual skin tones—but all unmistakably young.

The oldest couldn't have been more than twelve.

...

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