The Red Soldier: Origins of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #10

The plans sat there on the table, right in front of him. It had taken him a week to finally locate them, and now that they were right before his eyes, (Y/N) wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to look.

His journey started at the first HYDRA base he, Bucky and Steve had emptied, and from there he revisited each of them in order. (Y/N) scanned every room, searching every single corner, drawer, nook, and cranny. There was nothing though, not until he returned to the base he had been held prisoner in so many months ago.

It was deserted, void of any sort of life. Fires still burnt in the yard, and smoke continued to rise from the warehouse where they had first met Red Skull. From flying over it he noticed there was no longer fire, just smouldering embers and ash that got caught in the back of his throat.

The doctor hovered through the corridors, peaking his head through each room in search of a hint to Red Skull's location. The heart in his chest grew heavier and heavier as he approached the room he had been held in. Memories of seeing Bucky's face when he finally woke up from the nightmare sprung to his mind. He'd felt so happy; so safe. Now though, as his feet touched the ground and his hand turned the doorknob into his old room, all he felt was loneliness and anger.

In the centre of the room was the table he'd once been strapped too, although now it was marked, and dusty. The office adjoined to it smelled like death. He regarded the two men without pity. He had killed them, but they had pushed him too far; their barbaric methods had been the ultimate cause of their death, not him.

The study was largely untouched, and so (Y/N) began to scour the room for any information. He searched the pockets of the men laying on the floor, he pulled the notes off of the walls and attempted to decipher what the foreign language meant in his own tongue, but when he tried to pull open the drawers, they would not slide open. Once (Y/N) (L/N) had crouched down onto his haunches in front of the door he began to concentrate on the lock mechanism, allowing the energy flowing from his hands to act as a key. To his sheer delight, the filing cabinet drawer slid open, and all the files were there, neatly organised from A to Z.

(Y/N) dragged a finger along the tabs, stopping when a name caught his eye. 'Project R – (Y/N) (L/N).' He ripped the file off of the rails and peeled it open, curious as to what information they had held about him, but there was nothing in it. Frustrated, (Y/N) fell to his knees, a small sob escaping his dry lips.

There was nothing. He had nothing. No father, no Steve, no Bucky. The doctor sat down, cuddling his legs into his chest, resting his face between his knees. His heart was so heavy, but his mind was so light, as though there were only one thing weighing it down – revenge. He got to his feet, wiping the tears from his cheeks and unholstering his pistol, shooting at the filing cabinet ferociously until all the files were just simple scraps of paper strewn on the linoleum floor.

When the magazine was empty, and the ringing in his ears began to dissipate, (Y/N) (L/N) dropped to his knees once more, the gun falling from his grip. He stared at his hands, observing the red weaving between his fingers. Then, as his face screwed up in anger, and tears began to stream more freely down his face, he directed the energy at the wall. The bricks crumbled into a fine dust, revealing a small safe. With the wave of a hand, the door of the safe simply disintegrated, revealing a single, crumpled, handkerchief.

(Y/N) concentrated on it, pulling it towards him. It landed in his outstretched palm, and he stood up, walking towards the closest table, and placing the handkerchief in the centre. He knew what the contents would be. He knew that this simple handkerchief held the key to his vengeance, and yet he began to freeze.

(Y/N) (L/N) stretched his muscles as he breathed in and out deeply before smoothening out the creases of the hankie with both of his hands. In the centre of the handkerchief was the signature HYDRA mark, a skull surrounded by six tentacles, embroidered into the fabric, in the corner, a set of coordinates written sloppily. (Y/N) pulled out the ordnance survey map from his back pocket, tracing lines carefully until he located the coordinates.