The Red Soldier: Captain America and the Red Soldier

ISSUE #13

His body lay in the grass, still, unmoving. There were no dreams circulating around his blackened mind, only darkness. As his eyes began to twitch open, he was painfully reminded of all those months he had spent blind drunk in his room at the Avengers Compound: the ear-splitting headaches, the sore throats from chain smoking, the severe nausea.

With his body screaming at him to get up, and his mind begging him to go back to sleep, (Y/N) (L/N) crawled to his feet. Using the cuff of his sleeve he wiped at the dirt staining his face, unintentionally making it worse by smearing it over his right eye and cheek. 'There you are, Magician!' a scolding voice called at him, 'I thought I told you to be ready by noon!' A well-built man wearing nothing but a blue wrestling singlet approached.

'What?' (Y/N) replied, his voice hoarse as he took notice of his strange clothing: a red velvet waistcoat paired with an ill-fitting black tuxedo and matching bowtie, a top hat perched atop his head. The stranger hoisted him over his shoulders and began to stride towards a large encampment formed of Big Tops and caravans. (Y/N) wriggled against the man's hold on him, his body swaying with each step he took.

'You stink of alcohol,'

'You stink of B.O,' he fired back, proceeding to spew out the contents of his previous night's binge down the stranger's back. Almost immediately he was dropped to the ground.

The strongman wretched as he reached around his back, pulling his hand away once it had made contact with the watery vomit now staining his singlet. 'Jesus,' he cursed, 'was just trying to do you a favour, Magician.'

'I didn't fucking ask you to,' (Y/N) huffed, climbing to his feet, and taking a few steps away from the man before effortlessly floating upwards into the air. With outspread arms he allowed his magic to correct the clothing he'd been allocated whist entering the hex for a second time. The sharp tux transformed into his jeans and the Red Soldier's signature red jacket; the freshly pressed shirt and tie disappeared as an old, slightly blood stained, one took its place. As he glided off towards the town he glanced down at his feet, the handsome maroon brogues disappearing as his scuffed up calf-high combat boots replaced them and the top hat on his head changed into the Red Soldier's woven, crimson, circlet.

The Red Soldier darted through the sky as though he were a firework – ready to burst. An unsettling feeling had rooted itself in the centre of his stomach, although he was unsure whether or not this was the result of his recent binge, or the anticipation of facing Wanda Maximoff once more. Eventually his eyes landed on a confrontation taking place in a familiar suburban street. A black-haired lady dressed in stretches of long, purple, robes held an orb of scarlet magic in her hand, a smug smile on her face. Across the road from her lay a younger, brunette woman, nursing her decrepit looking left hand.

It took only a moment for (Y/N) to recognise the two witches: Agatha Harkness, and Wanda Maximoff.

He dropped from his considerable height, only just halting his fall before the soles of his tattered boots could slam into the asphalt. First, he turned to Wanda, taking notice of the hardened grey skin on her left hand. She stared at him, dazed almost. (Y/N) instantly felt his jaw clench with the realisation. Wanda's hand matched the flesh of the three witches he had only just laid to rest.

'YOU!' he roared, pointing an accusatory index at Agatha Harkness. 'YOU KILLED THEM!'

Harkness grinned toothily, her blackened fingers reaching towards his own as her eyes glared at him, studying the physical toll that the Book of the Damned had taken on him: the tips of his jet black fingers, the unusual shadow about his eyes, the dimly glowing circlet surrounding his head. 'I see you found the Darkhold.'