The Red Soldier: Origins of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #7

         'Why don't you have a girlfriend (Y/N)?' Gladys asked, 'Audrey's daughter is single, you know Beth, perhaps you could take her out for a walk whilst your home.'

         Mable could see him cringe, and the way James gritted his teeth anxiously; her suspicions were confirmed. 'I really doubt he has time for courting, Mam,' she said, 'far too busy winning a war, aren't you, Bud.'

         'Exactly,' he smiled thankfully.

Once breakfast was over, and Mable had taken off her hat and exchanged her heels for a pair of comfortable slippers, she entered the old study her father used to occupy. She'd never liked it: the tall bookshelves filled to the brim with books, the smelly leather armchairs facing an obnoxiously large oak desk and his godawful desk chair which made her stomach churn. He used to have her, and her sister enter to discuss their schoolwork.

Mary had always been good at needlework and theology – despite not believing a word of it; it was quite impossible to believe in such things when you were related to the likes of Gladys and Mable McGowan. She, on the other hand, had never even been able to poke a piece of thread through the eye of a needle. She'd stand there and let him shout at her for being so 'useless' and when he was done, she'd find her mother who'd teach her a new spell, or give her a potion to memorise, in secret.

         (Y/N) had always loved the study though. When Malcom McGowan died, and he was finally allowed to explore the house, he found solace in the books. He'd flick through them, studying the words and citing them later at the dinner table. The room held no bad memories for him.

(Y/N) was sat at the desk now, scribbling on a piece of letter paper, using the stationary her father had once used. 'I thought I might find you in here,' Mable smiled, walking further into the room. Thankfully, her son lacked the stern expression and bald head her father had had, otherwise she may not have entered. 'Who are you writing to?'

         'Steve,' (Y/N) answered, 'Bucky and I are just awaiting our next orders now.' He signed the letter and stuck it in an envelope before sliding a cigarette out of his trouser pocket and lighting it with a match he'd just struck against her father's desk.

         'And I assume your next orders will have something to do with HYDRA?'

         'Most definitely,' he responded, he wasn't stupid, he must have known she'd know what HYDRA were. Everybody in the forces had at least heard a rumour about them. 'I'd like you and Grandma to meet me in the cellar in an hour; you still practice down there, don't you?'

         'We do,' Mable nodded, 'I'll let her know.'

         'Thanks Mam.'

She found her mother sat on the back patio reading the newspaper and enjoying a cup of coffee.  She sat opposite her, meeting her eyes with a concerned gaze. '(Y/N) would like us to meet us in the cellar,' was all she said. Gladys almost choked.

'I didn't think he wanted to be a part of it,' she said in a hushed voice, 'I thought...'

'So did I,' Mable frowned, 'I thought he was stuck in his ways, but perhaps not.'

At midday Mable descended the steps into the cellar with her mother. When her father had been alive it had been used to store wine, port, and ale, but ever since his funeral it had been her mother's safe space to practice magic. Ancient tomes lined the walls where wine bottles had once been held. Tall candlesticks stood where barrels had once been placed haphazardly. (Y/N) was already down there, his fingers grazing the spines of the old books. Upon hearing his mother and grandmother enter the room, he stopped and turned around.