Krasnyy
A Captain America Fanfiction
by Pheather McKelle
I own nothing except my OCs and the plot, I'm just a girl with a dream. :3
(okay so something went wrong on the last post, like it was all just HTML code, so this *should* be better because I took out all the russian words.)
Chapter 1
That was the second time during the snowstorm that Zlata thought she heard someone howl.
Though she was used to the noises that wintery winds made, this one sounded different. Perhaps is was because Massachusetts winters were harsher than Russian ones? Zlata quickly discounted the possibility; she had lived here since she was sixteen. Snowstorm upon snowstorm had rattled these windows before, and she was well used to the sound. Besides, New England wasn't all that different from Russia when it came to snowstorms: sharp winds blew, pellets of icy snow pinged off the windows, and you usually took in more wood than the fireplace would use.
Zlata shivered when she heard the noise again, trying to push away the thought that someone was lost in a storm such as this. Maybe it was a half-frozen fisher cat or some stray pet from one of her neighbors.
The noise came again, and Zlata was sure it wasn't a fisher cat.
Curiosity got the best of her and she donned her light down coat, since the snow was relatively dry and powdery, and a cap and mittens, wading out into the thick drifts of swirling white.
For a few seconds, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the backlighting from the windows of her house casting flickering shadows on the pale snow. The smudge that was the workshop was dark, and Zlata was about to curse her stupidity when she saw the flare of light in her shack.
Great, something's short-circuited, she grumbled, trudging through the snow towards the workshop. Approaching cautiously, she heard the thud of heavy boots and a goan. Zlata steeled herself and grabbed the frozen handle of the axe still stuck in its log before proceeding, took a deep breath, and opened the door. She froze.
Though only marginally warmer than the outside, the workshop was blissfully free from wind and stinging grains of sandy snow. Heaped on rough, scarred wooden tables were an engine block, an assortment of discarded tools, and several other projects, which made lumpy shapes in the night. Through the inky darkness, a lone candle burned in solitude, its light flickering off the shining metal of her contraptions, and of the pale, stubbly face of a gaut man.
"Wh-who are you?" Zlata stammered, both from fear and from the cold. She might as well have remained silent for all the attention the man paid her; not a hair stirred when she spoke. He stared into the bright gold depths of the candle, appearing lost in thought, but the pain in his features made it seem as though they were some pretty dark thoughts indeed. His shuddering breaths echoed in the shack, causing the candle to dance with each exhale.
"I'm armed." Zlata warned him, though only half-heartedly. He didn't stir. Creeping forward, axe brandished, and saw that, despite the storm, he wore hardly more than a trenchcoat with the collar turned up and a dirty baseball cap, his long, greasy, shaggy brown hair in disarray. He looked torn between breaking down and crying or filling rivers with the blood of his enemies. Zlata surely hoped she wasn't numbered among them.
"Are you okay?" she asked. This got a reaction out of him. The man shifted his gaze to he stared at the slightly frightened woman, shivering in the cold, her breath coming in little puffs. He shifted his coat and pulled out his arm, ignoring the woman slowly backing up and raising the axe.
"My arm." he mumbled. Zlata's eyes widened. What she took for a metallic compression sleeve was, in fact, a metal arm, made of interlocking plates that served in the place of skin and sinew. Several of the plates were bent at odd angles, a few frayed wires peeking through. With a shuddering breath, Zlata hesitantly put down her axe and grabbed her tool belt from its customary hook.
"Where did you get this?" she asked as she examined the wires. The man remained mute, but his expression hardened somewhat. "Does this hurt?" she asked, clamping two wires together. The man looked at her somewhat incredulously, as if no one had asked him the question before.
"... No." he said after a little bit. Zlata nodded. While this technology was obviously far out of her reach, it seemed a simple fix; attaching the wires and, with her good pliers, bending the plates down to cover them. It was a crude fix, but a fix nonetheless.
"Can you wiggle your fingers?" she asked. The man's fingers slowly clenched, and the man nodded. "What's your name?" she asked. The man shook his head, remaining mute. "Well I have to know what to call you." she smirked somewhat. She traced her fingers up the contours of muscle until she reached a chipped, fading red star. "Krasnyy." she whispered, tracing the contours. The man raised an eyebrow. "It's Russian for-"
"Red." he finished, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
"I'll get some food for you." Zlata said after a pause, yanking on her coat and disappearing out the door. When she returned, he was gone, but he left a void in the shed larger than a man like him would have left. She left the food on the workbench and left, making sure to lock the doors of her house. In the morning, the food was gone.
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