Another chapter! I'm back to learning. I have a whole new set of classes this semester, so it will probably take a couple of weeks for me to fall into a comfortable rhythm. I have a three-day weekend, so I wanted to post this chapter before I have to go back to classes next Tuesday. I originally planned for this story to only be two chapters/parts. However, I decided to break chapter two into two parts, since it felt more natural for the story. There will be three parts, no more than that. This is only a short story. With that said, enjoy this chapter! :)
Chapter Two: Lies, Sunrises, and Stars
Isaiah decided to wait out the storm, tending to his injuries and drinking whatever the remaining bottles held. He half-expected the Winter Soldier to return; the growing silence as the rain and thunder slowed left an ominous feeling in the air. Yet, Isaiah sat alone in the demolished bar until the storm finally stopped shortly after dawn.
As the sun cast a colorful splash of gold and pink across the sky, Isaiah trudged back to his hidden stash of supplies before heading to camp. Nobody followed him - the Winter Solider was truly gone, probably returned to his people to warn them about another super-soldier.
The going was slow as he tried to avoid reopening the stab wounds. His advanced physiology allowed him to survive the many stab wounds, but it still hurt like hell. He tried to stay quiet, but he mostly ended up stumbling through the brush, scaring away unsuspecting bunnies and birds.
He probably looked horrendous. Bandages from his first-aid kit were wrapped all over his muscular body, already turning red from blood. Bruises darkened his skin, and he could feel the start of a concussion forming. A few cracked ribs made breathing difficult, stinging as the serum knit them back together.
Damn Soviet super-soldiers and their stupid metal arms.
Isaiah had taken the remains of the metal arm as proof to the brass that he had 'taken care of' the threat. Maybe if the brass thought that the Winter Soldier was dead, Isaiah might have a better chance to track down and demand answers from the man himself without the government interfering.
The bar fight left so many questions and a bad feeling in Isaiah's gut. Was the Winter Soldier working for someone? When did someone make another version of the super-soldier serum? And why did the Soldier look like the late Captain America's dead best friend?
He did not have much time to mull over the questions. Although the walk back to camp took longer than expected, he still managed to return in a reasonable enough time not to be yelled at for being late.
It was one small comfort when he dreaded reporting to the brass while everything hurt.
The colonel's tent stood on the far side of the camp, forcing Isaiah to walk through his fellow soldiers' tents. Those who were awake stared at him. Being one of a half-dozen or so black soldiers, he had become used to the stares and persistent jabs from his comrades. However, he was the only super-soldier (only he and the colonel knew about it). Limping into camp covered in bandages and carrying half of a metal arm naturally warranted attention.
Colonel Walker Price stood at a makeshift table, examining a map of the Korean peninsula. Several spots were marked out, showing their relative position to the frontlines and enemy targets.
Isaiah hunched under the canvas tent after receiving permission from the two soldiers standing sentry. Colonel Price glanced up as Isaiah offered a quick salute, a scowl already fixed on the older man's face.
"You're late," Price said and straightened up to his full height. Even so, Isaiah still towered over the colonel.
"I waited for the storm to pass," Isaiah replied and not-so-gently dropped the metal arm onto the table.
Colonel Price glanced down at the arm and gave it a light tap with a finger. He quietly traced the metal plates on the fingers before looking back up at the super-soldier.
"I knew the Winter Soldier was real," Price finally said. "Did you complete the mission?"
"Yes, sir," Isaiah lied. In truth, he had no idea where the Winter Soldier wandered off or if the Soldier was even still alive. Maybe he had died peacefully somewhere along a river, no longer plagued by whatever unseen force that seemed to surround the metal-armed man.
"At least you're good for something," Price muttered.
Isaiah ignored the remark, deciding that arguing was not worth it when he had more pressing issues at hand.
"Sir, there was something important I noticed on the mission," Isaiah said, figuring that the best way to reveal the information about the Winter Soldier was just to say it right away. Besides, if they found out that he lied, he and Faith would be in serious trouble, and he didn't want to risk pulling his wife into his mess.
"And what is that?" Price asked, for once giving Isaiah full attention.
"Sir, there was a slight issue with the Winter Soldier. I don't know how but the Soviets managed to get their hands on a version of the Super Soldier Serum. The Winter Soldier has that serum, and I recognized him as one of the Howling Commandos who appears to be working under the command of the Soviet Union."
Colonel Price raised an eyebrow and frowned. He seemed uncharacteristically surprised. "And which Howling Commando was it?"
"Sergeant James Barnes."
The next few moments passed slowly in agonizing silence. Colonel Price's scowl deepened as he stared at the blood-red star on the shiny metal arm that covered part of the maps. Water dripped off the severed limb, soaking into the paper map.
"Sergeant Barnes is dead," Price eventually said, glaring at Isaiah as if he would lie about something like this.
"I know, sir. However-"
Colonel Price slammed his hands onto the table and leaned forward, spit flying from his mouth as he spoke.
"You're already on thin ice, Bradley. I will not have you going around spreading lies about Captain America's dead best friend. Both of them were heroes, and I cannot have you tarnishing their legacy by wearing Captain America's uniform and accusing Sergeant Barnes of being a traitor."
"I did not say that Sergeant Barnes was working with the Soviets willingly. From what I could tell, it seemed like something else was going on. I have a gut feeling that-"
"I do not trust your gut feeling," Price growled, his voice dropping into a hoarse whisper. "In case you have forgotten, you are under my command, and my orders are to be obeyed one hundred percent without questioning. I do not trust having people like you on my team, let alone receiving a dose of the serum. If I tell you to do something, you do it. And I am telling you to stop lying, or I have someone pay your wife an unexpected visit."
The mention of Faith hit Isaiah like one of the Soldier's punches. His vision narrowed, and he stepped closer to the table.
"Are you threatening me?"
Colonel Price did not seem to care that the only thing separating him from the angry super-soldier was a wobbly, wooden table. It was either brave or foolish.
"You are accusing a national hero of being a traitor and a traitor for the Soviets, no less. Sergeant Barnes is not a Soviet super-soldier," Price said.
"I know what I saw. And what I saw was Sergeant Barnes. He's confused. If we can help him-"
"No!" Price shouted and pointed an accusing finger at Isaiah's large chest. "Sergeant Barnes is dead, gone. If you have any sense in that pathetic brain of yours, you will drop this nonsense and return to your duties, or there will be consequences. You're damn lucky I haven't had you arrested for stealing that uniform. This is my final warning. Go take off that damn uniform and keep your mouth shut. The Winter Soldier is dead. The mission is over. Understood?"
The anger in his chest piled up, threatening to burst. Only the thought of Faith being hurt allowed the anger to subside. He glared as he angrily saluted.
"Yes, sir, I understand," Isaiah growled through clenched teeth.
As he turned to leave, his advanced hearing allowed him to catch Colonel Price whisper a frustrated racial slur in his direction. Ignoring it, Isaiah returned to his tent to find a change of clothes and to sulk in anger.
He was starting to regret signing up for the army.
/\/\/\/\/\
Sitting under an awning on top of a rundown hotel, the asset watched the strange American super-soldier with the star on his chest leave the demolished bar at the first sign of the storm's end. From up there, the asset had a clear view of the surrounding town and a perfect opportunity to make a killing shot from the sniper rifle.
Yet, the asset silently watched the American limp away in the pink light of the morning sky.
The asset liked sunrises and sunsets, even though punishment for not watching the intended target always followed if the asset even glanced in the direction of the sky.
Here, alone, the asset had no one to yell at it for not focusing on the target. Still, the asset forced itself to look away from the majestic glow of colors painting the sky and slowly lighting up the shadow the asset was sitting in.
The asset knew someone who also liked sunrises and could paint them with small flicks of a brush so worn out from use that the handle had been taped several times to keep the bristles attached. That same someone wore a star, like the star on the chest of the American soldier who just slipped out of view.
That star stirred something deep inside the asset. It kept nagging at the inner parts of its brain. The face that wore the star did not match the blurry, broken memory in the asset's mind. The face in the asset's mind had hair as golden as the rays of sunshine peeking over the horizon, not dark like the shadows that were fading as the morning grew longer.
The star confused the asset, causing it to flee once it had the chance. Shivering slightly from the cold and wincing in pain the movement brought, the asset curled up with its lone arm across its knees and stared as the colors of the sky slowly faded to the usual blue.
The stars that dotted the night sky blinked out as another light overtook them. The asset would be in so much trouble right now, staring at the sky instead of eliminating the target. It would be in so much trouble for losing its arm, too.
Right. The arm. It had forgotten about the arm.
Glancing down at the torn metal, the asset assessed the damage. The arm ended at the elbow, wires dangling from the jagged tear. Losing part of the arm made balancing a little challenging. Accustomed to the heavy weight on its left side, the asset's core muscles constantly strained to keep its balance. With part of the arm gone, the asset's overused muscles finally earned a break, even though it threw off its balance.
The blood-red star on the bicep stood out against the shiny metal. Instead of honoring truth, purity, and innocence like the white star on the American's chest, the red star on the arm symbolized the vicious power of the Soviet division of Hydra.
Designed by Doctor Arnim Zola, the arm replaced the one the asset lost. The procedure to attach the arm left a painful memory that not even the Chair could remove. No doubt the asset's handlers would be very angry about the damaged arm.
The thought of having to face a disappointed Zola left the asset with a tight knot in its stomach. It deserved punishment for failing the mission and ruining Hydra's property. Its handlers would appear soon to take it back to the Siberian base, seeing what a failure the asset was. Its allegiance was discovered, the arm severed, and its body covered in painful wounds that would impede future missions. Another super soldier had almost completely ruined Hydra's plans, and they would most likely take their frustrations out on the asset.
Maybe it could just leave. What Hydra did not know did not hurt them.
The asset froze as the scandalous thought of deserting its only home - and its creators - crossed its jumbled mind. Hydra gave it food and shelter - and a purpose. Doctor Zola created the asset, breathing life into its broken body. It only made sense that the asset obeyed orders in return for the generosity Hydra provided.
However, deep down, the asset did not enjoy being with Hydra - if it could even understand what enjoyment meant. Simple pleasures, such as emotions, were unsuitable for something less than human. The asset was not human, so it did not need feelings. Yet, seeing the star on the American's chest stirred up something so foreign and vehement inside the asset's mind that it decided to ignore its orders to arrive at the rendezvous point later that night - its first personal decision since the metal arm was fused to its body.
The asset braced itself against the wall with its remaining hand and painfully rose to its feet, wincing as the movement tore open lightly sealed wounds and pulled at bruised skin. Hydra would be enraged to find out that the asset disobeyed orders, but the asset did not care.
Determined to figure out what that star meant, the asset limped its way down the hotel's rickety stairs, on its way to freedom.
Isaiah's story is written better in the comics (I really suggest reading them because they are so heartbreaking and go into better detail about what happened). TFATWS also gives some more detail about what happened to Isaiah, although there is so much of his story left to tell. He really deserves a TV series. In regards to Bucky, if you are sensitive about mildly torturous interrogation, do not read the next part. It's not graphic, but Bucky does not have a fun time (because Hydra is full of psychopaths). It's nothing worse than what we have already seen from Marvel, but I'll just leave a warning just in case.