Chapter Text
The Riven Home for Boys
Upstate New York, January 1931
A cacophony of voices flooded the halls around the visitor as he followed in the footsteps of the orphanage headmaster. The walk seemed never-ending — due mostly to the portly headmaster’s small strides, but partially from the monotony of the long hallway’s many identical doors.
These doors were the source of the multiple young male voices that now battered the visitor’s ears.
How can anyone form a coherent thought in this racket? the visitor thought to himself as the noise and doors continued. He straightened his glasses, holding tightly to the bundle of papers in his arms as he tried desperately to avoid tripping over the headmaster. The man seemed intent on holding a snail’s pace for their walk, though it did nothing to improve his constant huffing and puffing.
Cries of “a visitor! Come see!” echoed between the doors, and the faces of boys from elementary to teen stared out at the two men with curious eyes.
“Get back in yer rooms!” the headmaster snapped. “He ain’t here for you lot.”
The faces seemed to immediately catch his meaning, and young eyes widened. Doors slammed shut almost immediately. Different noises ensued - the scraping of chairs being dragged across the floor and lodged under door handles. More whispers. The hall grew eerily quiet as they advanced.
“They’re going to see him,” a few voices murmured.
“Why would they wanna meet him?”
Others answered them quietly.
“I hope the Master and his visitor are prepared.”
The visitor felt a chill run through him, though he tried to dismiss the unease of the boys as the superstitions of children. Yet his anxious mind continued to replay the words, and the faces of boys nearing 18 who had muttered them as he’d passed. He swept the thoughts away like dust hidden under a rug.
I can handle myself, he thought. This is far from the most . . . unique patient I’ve examined.
Besides, he reasoned, the collective of counselors who’d enlisted his Agency’s services had promised their methods could bring the boy back into society. He had nothing to fear.
Presently the visitor and the Headmaster came to the end of the hallway. There, on the right-hand side, was a door.
Plain, the fading white paint of the room number ‘17’ was its only adornment. Nearly the end of the hall, the visitor noted. And situated farthest from the other boys’ rooms - even the one directly across from it was empty. The visitor’s anxiety began to grow again.
Grunting, the orphanage Headmaster fumbled in his pocket. A jingling rang out as he extracted a ring of keys from the tight fabric. The visitor found that a pressure had developed in his throat. His collar felt much too constricting. Yet he held his composure as the Headmaster fingered through the keys.
“Now Mr. Kinsen, there’s a few things ya should know about ‘im. Boy was brought here from Russia - I dunno what part, but he speaks little Russian and less English.”
The man continued to rattle off instructions as he hunted for the key.
“Don’t provoke ‘im - remain calm. Ask yer questions to keep him occupied. If he starts to get outta hand, get out of the room. I’ll be at the door —he greatly dislikes my presence.”
Seeming to have located the correct key, the Headmaster slipped it into the lock and turned it. He glanced at the door as if it was something distasteful,
“He’s all yours,” he told the visitor, stepping back from the door and gesturing to it with a miniature curtsy like a ringmaster introducing his next act. He seemed almost relieved — like he’d passed on some sort of responsibility for the boy.
The visitor hesitated, fingering his papers. The Master of the Home began to sneer.
“Scared, are ya?” he asked. “Yer a government agent. If he does anything, flash yer badge and pull yer gun or something. He’s disturbed but he ain’t stupid. He’ll leave ya alone.”
The “agent” wanted to point out that he was, in fact, simply an examiner and did not at all possess any kind of firearm, but kept his mouth shut. Taking a deep breath and straightening his short tie, he grasped the handle, turned it, and stepped into the room.
As he entered, the Master quickly closed the door behind him, while his hand was still in the process of releasing the handle. The room held the chill of an icebox, and Kinsen felt the hairs on his arms rise involuntarily beneath the sleeves of his suit jacket. The only furniture he could observe was a metal bunk bed with rumpled sheets, and a table with a plate of untouched food. Just as well — the strange gruel hardly looked edible. Kinsen didn’t blame the young man for avoiding it.
The whole place reminded Kinsen of a prison cell rather than an orphanage dorm. He didn’t see the child — James, he remembered — anywhere. But . . . there. Over in the far corner sat a boy, one leg outstretched against the wall, the other bent. His head was bowed, eyes obscured by a mass of long, dark hair. Kinsen reckoned he was close to the age of twelve or thirteen. He didn’t appear to have noticed Kinsen, though the examiner seemed to remember the Headmaster describing James as having hearing keen as a cat’s. Kinsen cleared his throat quietly.
“James?” he asked. The boy’s head raised slowly, and Kinsen saw in his eyes the look of one hunted. Then, to Kinsen’s surprise, he spoke.
“What are . . . you here for?” he asked, pausing once as if considering whether his words were correct. His voice was low and rasping, likely from disuse.
“I’m here about you, James,” Kinsen answered, hands shaky as he clutched his papers.
He is just a boy. Not a monster .
Even with this attempt at self-reassurance, Kinsen still felt inclined to mask any sign of fear from the boy. He carefully made his way to the bed, taking a seat on the frigid sheets and rock-hard mattress. The cold bit through even his overcoat. James’ eyes followed him.
“My name is Richard Kinsen. Could you tell me a bit about yourself?” the examiner probed gently, pulling a pencil out of his coat pocket. Shuffling his papers, he scribbled a few notes, trying to keep an eye on the boy at the same time.
James’ head fell back against the wall, and he stared impassively at the ceiling. His voice was nearly monotone — still raspy and broken, but improving with each word spoken.
“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My parents called me Bucky. I am thirteen years old. Born March 10th, 1917. I am an American, born in Russia. My mother and father are deceased. I have no other family.”
Kinsen raised an eyebrow at the name, but most of this he already knew. The boy was just spouting facts.
“Yes, yes. Good. Now, is there anything else I should know? Maybe about . . . what happened to you? Why you’re . . . here?”
“My parents are dead,” James answered dryly.
Yes, that’s why you’re in an orphanage , Kinsen thought to himself, sighing. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his pencil.
“And do you . . . know what happened to them?”
“They were taken.”
Kinsen paused, lowering his pencil.
“What? By who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember anything? No hints of what happened to them?”
It was a push, he knew, but he needed to know. Needed to see what the boy’s limits were. How lucid he truly was.
“There was. . .red . . .” James began. But very quickly his eyes glazed over and he began to mutter to himself.
“No no no, not right. Where are they? They should have been here hours ago - should have stayed here. Mother? Father?” He called out to invisible specters, still lost in the memory. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze turned in Kinsen’s direction, passing over him without focusing.
“You - I know you. You’re that organization. Red skull, tentacles. They told me to stay away from you. What did you do to them?” The boy’s voice raised, becoming desperate. His English hadn’t faltered once. Kinsen wondered why.
“What did you do to my parents?!” James growled. “WHERE ARE THEY? NO! GET AWAY FROM ME!”
He pulled in on himself, curling into a fetal position and covering his head as he called again to his mother and father. And then he was struggling against invisible hands, clawing at the walls, the floor . . . he seemed quite mad. Kinsen scribbled notes as fast as he could, frowning silently. This did not bode well for the boy. Something would have to be done about him.
James screamed, a bone-shattering shriek. Then he began spouting Russian gibberish, fighting the walls again. Kinsen didn’t understand a word. He chose that moment to take his leave.
And not a moment too soon, for as the Headmaster closed the door behind Kinsen, fists clanged against the metal violently. Kinsen startled involuntarily, seeing the Headmaster’s face blanch white as he swiftly secured the lock. But he could not contain the screams.
“Let me out, Riven! You can’t keep me here forever!” Anger burned in every hoarse syllable. But it faded into a desperate pleading. “Don’t leave me with them. Please, they’ll torture me.”
The keening voice nearly broke Kinsen’s heart.
But the absence of James’ anger was short-lived.
“Jacob Riven! Let me go! Where are my parents? What have you done to them? LET ME OUT OF HERE.” Screeches and sobs echoed down the hall, reaching the ears of the other terrified boys. Those who had peeked out to watch quickly pulled back into their rooms and slammed the door.
Kinsen shuddered. The boy might not be in his right mind, but he certainly wasn’t all gone , either. The headmaster’s face reflected the same sentiment.
“I didn’t know he knew my name,” the Headmaster said, breathing heavily. “How does the little bugger know my name?!”
Kinsen frowned, scrawling a few more notes in his papers.
“I’ll report this back to my supervisors,” he promised. “We’ll figure out what to do with him.”
I’ll do my best for the boy, he thought privately. Though at this point I’m really not sure if anything can be done.