The Red Soldier: Rise of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #1

PART ONE

His morning had begun like every other did in the spring. He stretched, lit the wood stove in his pokey little kitchen and proceeded to make the bed whilst the kettle boiled. Once he'd shook his pillows back into shape, and smoothened out the wrinkles in his blankets, he poured himself a cup of tea. The hot drink warmed up his hands first, and then once he'd taken his first sip, it warmed his body, spreading from his lips, all the way to the bottom of his belly.

         (Y/N) (L/N) looked in the rusting mirror above his bathroom sink, hacking away at the hair which grew on his face with a blunt razor. Had the facial hair not itched so much he might have let it grow out; let it hide the face he had grown to hate. Most people would have killed to look so young at the grand age of ninety-four, but not (Y/N). He would tuck himself into bed every night, wishing on every star that he'd wake up with a grey hair, or a forehead wrinkle.

         The stars never listened to him though, if anything, they mocked him. They forced him to wake up every morning. They forced him to stare into that mirror every other day and remind himself of the hell he resided in; a hell he simply remained in to piss off the stars that cursed him.

The boots (Y/N) (L/N) had worn since nineteen forty-two crunched in the late spring snows that covered the mountain side. They were old, older than the nephew he barely remembered, and yet they still served him well. It was a relatively warm day for April, the snow falling barely making him shiver.

         As he trudged through the garden, he found Belinda and Wilfred, rubbing their snouts against the soil which covered his carrots. 'You two,' he laughed, 'come on, there's fresh hay in the shed.' He began to lead them back towards the house, a smile on his face.

Those two goats were the only thing which made him smile anymore. When he'd moved into the farmhouse he had thirty goats, but he wasn't a farmer, or a veterinarian so he had very little clue on how to breed them, so only a few of them ever produced offspring. Belinda and Wilfred were the last of the flock, they were his family.

When he turned around the corner of his bungalow, a sense of  dread filled him. Perched precariously on the mountainside was a strange jet plane, it's loading ramp stretching into his front lawn, it's mounts digging through the snow.

         (Y/N) stopped in his tracks, using his hands to hold shut the jaws of Belinda and Wilfred, preventing them from making any noise. He backed up slowly, his breathing becoming heavy as his heart began to beat quicker in his chest. 'Shhh,' he hushed the goats at either side of him who had begun to grumble, 'it's not safe...' He began to question himself, had he been careful enough when going into the village for supplies? Had changing his haircut and clothes not been enough to pass as his own son every other thirty years?

            He continued to back up slowly, only stopping when his back came into contact with a hard, fleshy, wall. His body froze, his hands leaving go of Wilfred and Belinda. The two goats ran off, bleating. Before turning around to see what, or who, it was he had knocked into, he let his hands drop to his sides, allowing them to fill themselves with the energy they so desperately craved to hold once more.

Nineteen forty-five. That was the last time (Y/N) (L/N) had let himself use his powers in violence, The day, he had killed over a hundred men in an attempt to satisfy the vengeance which had burned within him.

(Y/N) took one look at the eyes staring down at him and raised his hands. It wasn't the first time he'd imagined this.

He slid down to the floor, his back now against the outer east wall of his house as he hugged his knees to his chest and held his hands to his face. Red sparks drifted from his fingertips, connecting to his temples.