The Red Soldier: Origins of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #2

(Y/N) (L/N) woke up, startled and cold. He sat up straight immediately, his head colliding with a low metal ceiling. He winced at the pain, his fingers rubbing the spot through his thick (H/C) hair, his eyes quickly scanning the surroundings. A large man sat in the seat parallel to his make-shift bed, his hands resting on the steering wheel of what seemed to be a tank. Buttons flashed on the dashboard, radio screeches disturbed the silence. He closed his eyes, searching his mind for the last memories he had. The memories of using unspeakable powers to attack a man who had conducted his torture, and the corruption of his body, flooded into his mind.

'Dr (L/N),' the man driving the tank gasped, pushing down on the break with his foot and standing up. 'Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers will want to speak to you.'

'Captain...' he'd begun to query, but the man had already climbed out of the cabin.

(Y/N) looked at the jacket which had been placed over him in substitution of a blanket. It was thick and warm, and smelled awfully good. He picked it up, breathing in the scent before inspecting it. On the flap of the breast pocket read the name of his friend, 'Barnes'. Thinking he'd have a few more minutes alone, he lifted the jacket to his nose one more time, breathing in the aroma which clung to it. Just as he took a whiff though, the hatch opened, and James Buchanan Barnes slid down the ladder.

He caught (Y/N) in the act, but simply grinned, winking at his friend. (Y/N) quickly folded up the jacket and tried to hand it to Bucky. 'Keep it,' he smiled, unfolding the coat, 'you're shivering.' Then, he helped a sleepy (Y/N) back into it, patting his shoulders as soon as he'd zipped it up. 'Suits you,' Bucky complimented, taking note of (Y/N) in his jacket, a smirk appearing on his face just as Steve Rogers begun to descend the ladder.

'It's about three sizes too big for him,' Steve chuckled. He was taller, (Y/N) noticed, his figure full and strong.

'It's warm,' (Y/N) said, folding his arms inwards, hugging himself in an attempt to conserve warmth.

The two of them sat in the driver and passenger seats, staring at (Y/N) who looked tired and dishevelled. (Y/N)'s gaze danced between his two friends. If it weren't for his confusion, he might have hugged them both in relief.

Steve and Bucky made themselves comfortable; Steve sitting up straight whilst Bucky spread his legs and clasped his hands in front of him. They made eye contact for a moment, as though fighting over who would break the silence. Bucky lost.

'You've been out for almost three weeks,' he said, staring at his boots which were planted firmly on the floor.

'That's not possible,' (Y/N) stated, 'without fluids for that long I would have died.' He almost laughed at the prospect. It was impossible. A man would die after three days if he hadn't gotten water, and he'd seen no water canteens in the cockpit of the tank, and he had no drip connected to his wrist.

'We thought that too,' said Steve, 'but perhaps it's your thing which made it possible.'

'I have no th-thing,' (Y/N) stammered seriously, he begun to think of the skills his mother and grandmother had; although none of them could compare to the damage he caused that night of the escape. There was no red when they did it, no real damage; just floating pans, pain relief and moving cards.

'You have something,' Bucky said, 'they did something to you.'

'I don't want to talk about that,' replied (Y/N) coldly.

'But it could help...' tried Bucky.

'I said I don't want to talk about it!' (Y/N) spat. There was nobody he wanted to talk to about what had happened to him, the power he felt within him; nobody except maybe his mother, who might have some knowledge of what he'd been exposed to.