Chapter Text
The rain streamed down like a curtain of silk, soaking through the muddy forest ground and lashing out at anyone too stupid to be outside in the thunderstorm. Heavy leather boots splashed quietly through the growing accumulation of mud and puddles, trying to stick to the crumbling sidewalks in the war-struck city. Most of the buildings were in ruins in this area of Goyang, just skeletons of their former structures dotting the dark skyline.
The wind battered the large form of Isaiah Bradley, tugging at his jacket and slicing cruelly at his exposed face. The military-issued helmet provided little protection from the storm’s assault. He clutched his sidearm tightly in his large hands, silently praying that the rain would not damage the weapon. Luckily, he had thought ahead to stash his pack of food, first aid kit, sleeping roll, and rifle under somewhere dry and hidden. He carried only a few chewy protein bars, extra ammo, and smaller bandages in his belt. He was told to be prepared for hand-to-hand combat, so he only carried the bare essentials on his person while he searched the city.
The only sound came from the howling of the wind and the splash of rain on the buildings, ground, and his helmet. Peering through the relative darkness and the curtain of rain, Isaiah scanned his surroundings, searching for signs of movement.
Shoulders tense against the storm and anticipation, he shifted his grip on the gun and wiped the water out of his eyes.
Goyang was silent, empty, devoid of all signs of life. And yet, the brass insisted that an enemy soldier was out here on this mud-soaked peninsula, killing countless American soldiers. And they wanted Isaiah to eliminate this mysterious, rogue soldier.
There were reports of soldiers being sent out on missions who never came back, each recorded disappearance only increasing the apprehension of the troops near Goyang. Some were starting to worry that the mysterious soldier would break into their camp in the middle of the night, slaughtering all of them in their sleep. Yet, so far, only those who were sent to track down and kill their enemy disappeared. Camp seemed to be safe, at least for the moment.
The brass finally had enough and ordered Isaiah to find the rogue soldier. They must have figured that a super soldier would have a better chance at removing this ghostly force.
A single soldier causing all this turmoil did not sit right with Isaiah. For all they knew, there could be a whole battalion out here, waiting for him to fall into their trap. Rumors around the camp mentioned someone called the Winter Soldier, a mindless man with a metal arm. Isaiah refused to believe the rumors, assuming that it was just a ghost story spread by the higher-ups to keep everyone in line. However, the brass seemed to hold some genuine fear for this strange Winter Soldier and now Isaiah was soaked to the bone chasing a rumor in the middle of a storm - alone.
Maybe it was just an excuse to send Isaiah off on a mission to be killed by the enemies so that the underground Super Soldier Program would never be found. What a great way to remove the evidence of the medical torture that he and others were subjected to. He was the sole survivor of the experiments, being forced to watch as his fellow brothers-in-arms perished, either by the concoction they were injected with or by some mission going suspiciously wrong.
It pained him to see his brothers die so brutally. Each death broke a piece inside him, slowly ruining his patriotic view of life. America, his home, had hurt him. And yet, he still found himself holding onto hope of a better life, deciding to steal a replica of Captain America’s uniform to show that he too could be a hero and stand up for his fallen brethren.
The star on the chest of the uniform stood out proudly underneath his open jacket. The top part of the uniform barely fit over his broad shoulders, so he opted to keep his army-issued combat pants and boots instead of tearing the rest of the uniform. He kept his jacket open to show the enemy that he was fighting for America, his wife Faith, and his fallen friends and allies. It was a display of honor and truth.
He was going to complete this mission and show the brass back at camp that people like him were just as capable of representing America as Captain America himself. He going to show the world that people like him could be heroes and deserve all the respect and rights of the common American.
A flash of lightning lit up the muddy road. Isaiah did a quick sweep of his surroundings, sighting down the short barrel of his pistol. No movement, no sound, just the endless downpour.
Isaiah repositioned his gun to a semi-relaxed hold, stepped out from underneath a torn wing of an abandoned bar, and went to cross the street when a heavy force suddenly dropped on him.
The unexpected weight knocked the wind out of him and the gun slipped out of his hands, clattering against the stone sidewalk. He landed in a puddle, soaking him even more. Through the darkness, he could make out a shadow in the shape of a man. Something glinted against a metallic shine on the shadow’s left side.
The shadow rolled off him to get a better angle. Isaiah heard a knife being unsheathed and quickly dodged the stab by rolling on the ground and onto his feet.
“What the hell?” Isaiah thought out loud. Nobody had ever gotten the drop on him before. He caught the shadow’s right wrist before the knife could stab into his arm. He twisted and received a solid, painful left hook to the face breaking his nose and causing him to see stars in the cloudy night. He stumbled backward and fell through the wooden door of the bar behind him.
The shadow lunged at him and Isaiah quickly fell to his back and kicked the shadow up and into the bar. Both soldiers rolled to their feet at the same time and lunged at each other.
The shadow lashed out with his knife again, barely missing Isaiah’s right side. The larger man blocked the attempted stab and kicked the shadow in the stomach, sending the Soldier stumbling backward and the knife clattering to the floor.
The Soldier pulled out another knife and advanced on Isaiah.
“How many damn knives do you have?” Isaiah grunted out as the edge of the blade sliced through his rain-soaked jacket.
It quickly became violent as the two super soldiers started throwing each other into tables and walls, breaking the beautifully carved furniture and smashing up against the wall of glass bottles. Broken table legs and heavy whiskey bottles turned into improvised weapons used by Isaiah to either hit the metal-armed soldier or to block a swipe from the Soldier’s infinite dagger collection.
Tossing the Soldier over the bar top, Isaiah quickly took a chance to wipe the blood from his eyes. A long but shallow cut crossed diagonally on his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Bruises were already forming all over and he was sure that he had at least a few cracked ribs. The combination of blood, rainwater, and the darkness from the storm made it hard to see his opponent, especially since the freaking Winter Soldier was dressed in all black, the red star on the shiny metal arm the only splash of color on the living shadow.
That damn metal arm was becoming a nuisance. Being hit by that metal fist hurt more than any of the Soldier’s knives and if he was a normal human, Isaiah was sure he would have died from the initial punch in the doorway.
He needed to do something about that arm.
The Soldier, apparently oblivious to Isaiah’s internal loathing of the metal arm, lept over the counter, latched his legs on top of Isaiah’s shoulders, twisted, and flipped Isaiah onto his back in one fluid motion. The force of the fall and the strength of the chokehold stunned him. He almost blacked out as the darkness slowly settled in, but thoughts of his beautiful wife, Faith, reading a condolence letter from the brass about his untimely death gave him enough strength to grab the Soldier’s foot and snap the man’s ankle.
He rolled to his feet after the Soldier loosened his chokehold and picked up the metal-armed man and shoved him angrily against the solid bar. The Soldier let out a cry of pain as his chest was vigorously rammed into the solid chunk of wood and stone.
It was his chance. The Soldier was dazed and Isaiah was damned if he let the walking-death machine kill him. Faith would kill him if he died.
Seizing the opportunity, Isaiah pressed up against the Soldier, kicked out his legs so that the shadow fell to his knees, and bashed a full bottle of soju against the back of the Soldier’s head.
“Stay down,” Isaiah ordered and wretched the metal arm back.
The Soldier shouted and pressed up against Isaiah’s body, attempting to wiggle free. Isaiah growled and leaned back far enough to kick the Soldier right between the shoulder blades. He kept his foot against the Soldier’s back and gripped the metal arm with his right hand on the bicep and his left on the forearm. He pushed with his right hand while pulling with the left, letting out a scream of anger and determination.
The metal plates protested and stubbornly held on. The Soldier’s struggling increased as the metal screeched. They were both shouting when the metal arm gave way at the elbow, sparks flying as wires tore and disconnected.
Isaiah stumbled when the arm snapped, his foot slipping from the Soldier’s back. The Soldier slumped to the ground against the bar, sparks from the live wires dangling from his sheared arm giving the impression of tiny stars against the night sky.
Through the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, Isaiah heard an angry hiss and was promptly tackled by the furious Winter Soldier.
They tussled on the ground, rolling into broken furniture and shattered glass. Isaiah landed a few blows using his half of the metal arm as a mace-like weapon while the Soldier slashed at him with another one of his stupid knives.
Somehow, they were both on their feet again, throwing wild punches and kicks while tossing anything in reach at each other. The walls cracked in countless places and the shelves of alcoholic drinks practically emptied after ramming each other into them, the broken glass making the floor slippery.
They were back on the floor again after slipping on the glass, both shouting in anger and nearly blind with adrenaline. The Soldier was more agile and dealt blows with the intent to kill, but Isaiah was bulkier and had experience fighting super soldiers.
He hated killing others but the Soldier was determined to murder him. Considering the increasing number of stab wounds dotting Isaiah’s large body, he probably should already be dead but the serum in his blood allowed him to survive the multiple contusions and lacerations.
The fight went on and on, matching each other blow for blow. Even with only one working arm, the Soldier was a deadly enemy. Isaiah sent out a silent promise to Faith that, even if he did not return in one piece, he would at least return alive.
That promise seemed to grow more likely as the super soldiers slowly lost energy and resorted to hitting each other with table legs and wrestling on the ground.
Eventually, Isaiah was on his back, the Soldier straddling his hips, another sharp knife clenched tightly in the Soldier’s raised right hand. Isaiah kicked the Soldier off and the shadow dropped the knife and staggered to his feet.
Isaiah watched the Soldier reach behind his curtain of hair and undo a clasp that held the black mask covering the lower half of his face. The Soldier heaved a sigh of relief and tossed the mask to the side as he collapsed to his knees and spat out a mouthful of blood onto the tarnished floor.
“Truce?” Isaiah asked from the floor. He grimaced as he propped himself up against the wooden bar, clutching a stab wound on his stomach.
The Soldier rolled onto his back and glared up at Isaiah, but made no indication that he was still planning on turning Isaiah into a human knife block. He was close enough that Isaiah could reach out and touch him, but moving hurt and Isaiah figured that the Soldier knew that they were evenly matched and it was pointless to continue fighting while in such exhausted conditions.
“Do you speak English?” Isaiah asked. The Soldier’s glare returned but he did not speak. Isaiah took the silence as a ‘yes’ and continued, “I’m assuming that you do. I just want to know one thing: are you working for someone or are you just a rogue soldier killing everyone you come across?”
The Soldier did not reply, because naturally Isaiah was stuck sitting on the floor of an abandoned bar in Goyang with an uncooperative, murder machine lying within stabbing reach. It was dangerous and stupid to be talking like this when the Soldier proved himself to be completely capable of fighting.
If anyone had told him that he would not only fight against a supposed ghost story but also have a very one-sided conversation with said ghost story, Isaiah would have laughed in their face. Now, he fully understood why the brass had been so fearful of the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier was agile, strong, deadly, and possessed an endless supply of knives. Earlier, Isaiah thought that a dagger was a strange weapon of choice, especially since most military-issued guns were relatively easy to use. But now, after being covered in slashes and painful holes, he could see why the Winter Soldier chose such a weapon.
Isaiah thought that the only super soldiers were Captain America, Isaiah’s army companions, and himself. The brass would not be happy to find out that a foreign power possessed their very own silent, murderous super-soldier. And they would be very angry if they found out that Isaiah almost removed the threat, only to sit and have a conversation in the middle of a storm.
He had never been a killer. He only joined the army because he wanted to protect his home - to protect Faith. Now, even after being stabbed and nearly beaten half to death, Isaiah could not bring himself to end the Soldier’s life. Maybe it was the way the Soldier looked away when Isaiah asked if he worked for anyone. The Soldier had not said anything, but Isaiah knew that the Soldier was only here because of someone’s orders. And everything about the Soldier just seemed off.
He could not explain it, but something about the Soldier seemed almost forced. Watching the Soldier lie there on the floor, breathing heavily, and appearing strangely worried while staring back at him, Isaiah guessed that the Soldier’s higher-ups would not be kind to him if he returned after failing a mission.
Something stirred inside Isaiah but he brushed it off. He refused to feel pity for an enemy soldier, especially one that already had slaughtered countless American soldiers.
A flash of lightning suddenly lit up the room, allowing Isaiah to catch a glimpse of the Soldier’s face. Due to the dark and the black mask covering the lower half, Isaiah never really saw the Soldier’s full face.
It caught him off guard. The Soldier was surprisingly young, probably late twenties. But the most shocking part was the familiarity of it.
“Star?” the Soldier muttered, barely loud enough to hear, his steel-blue eyes glued to the center of Isaiah’s chest. The Soldier’s voice sounded strangely like an American doing a very believable impression of a Russian accent, only adding to the ‘off-ness’ surrounding the walking shadow.
“I’ve seen you before,” Isaiah muttered, mouth agape. “On posters and what-not.”
The Soldier sniffed. “Ghost story. Don’t exist.”
“Clearly you do,” Isaiah pointed out, trying to think where he saw the young, blue-eyed man before. Suddenly, it hit him. “You were part of the Howling Commandos. You’re Sergeant Barnes, aren’t you?”
“Barnes? Star?” the Soldier asked. He squinted at the star adorning the stolen uniform. “You…not…him.”
“No, I’m not Captain America,” Isaiah replied, silently glad that he finally got the Soldier talking, even if the metal-armed man seemed very confused. “You’re a dead hero, why are you out here killing American soldiers?”
“Sent to kill me. Killed them first.” The Soldier paused. “Followed orders. Failed mission. Deserve punishment.”
As if he couldn’t get any creepier, that line jarred Isaiah deeper than any of the knife wounds.
“What kind of punishment?” Isaiah asked, a million different scenarios flooding his mind.
The Soldier’s eyes widened in fear and he sat up as fast as his exhausted body would allow, groaning with the effort.
“Wait, hold on. You don’t have to go back,” Isaiah said, pulling himself to his feet. His foot slipped on broken glass and he collapsed onto a lone, surviving bar stool.
“Listen, I don’t want to go back to my people either. Why don’t we just call a truce, promise not to kill each other, and try to figure this out somewhere far away from the war?” Isaiah offered.
In retrospect, it sounded stupid, abandoning his position in the army to run off with an enemy soldier. He had no idea what would happen to Faith if the brass ever thought that Isaiah deserted the military. They would certainly consider him a traitor, but Isaiah’s gut told him that the Winter Soldier needed - wanted - help.
The Soldier only stared sadly at Isaiah. No, not at him - at the star of the stolen uniform.
“Ghost story,” the Soldier muttered.
And with a flash of lightning and clap of thunder that shook the building, the Winter Solider disappeared.