Chapter Text
The Soldier notes several things as he regains consciousness, before opening his eyes or moving a muscle. He is in a moving vehicle, laying on a surface that’s far softer than where he’s placed in the back of a STRIKE van.
He’s inexplicably laying on a bed, and there are no restraints holding him to it.
The Soldier cannot recall ever laying on a mattress. He knows only the cold, unforgiving steel tables he lays on in laboratories as scientists and techs take him apart and upgrade him with their experiments.
“He’s clearly on something.” says a man’s voice. The Soldier’s hand twitches beyond his control. “What made you think it’s a good idea to pick up a passed-out junkie on the side of the road?”
“He looks like you, man, before you cut your hair.” another man’s voice says.
“No, he looks like he’s in the Shield.” the first voice scoffs. The Soldier knows HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, but he’d never been a part of SHIELD. “Who wears tactical gear like that outside the ring?”
The Soldier has never worn anything except tactical gear on missions. Even during maintenance, he wears tactical pants or nothing at all.
“I was more focused on the metal arm. What is that, some sort of gimmick?”
“It felt real when we hauled him in here.” the first voice says. “How do we know he won’t try to stab us?”
“We’re more than a match for him.” the second voice sounds unconcerned. Clearly he is unaware that the Soldier is enhanced, which will give the Soldier a definitive advantage.
The first man mutters that he has more city mileage than his companion and that picking someone up is an awful idea.
The Soldier only hears the two men, but perhaps there are more, and these two are simply the most chatty.
Clearly, whoever found him is not HYDRA. The Soldier should not have been found, but the lack of maintenance has resulted in cognitive errors, a malfunctioning body and massive lapses in functioning.
His body twitches uncontrollably as if to prove that point, and the Soldier opens his eyes.
He was right about being on a bed; he’s on a lower bunk bed on a bus. There are curtains on the bunk, though the Soldier is never given privacy, and the curtains are pushed aside. Across a narrow walkway, a man lounges on another bunk bed.
He is a Caucasian male with numerous highly-identifiable tattoos on his arms. The Soldier would take that as proof that this man isn’t an agent, but the Soldier himself has his distinctive metal arm.
Aside from the man’s dark hair, he does not appear to resemble the Soldier.
“You’re awake.” the man eyes him. “Are you thirsty? You want juice?”
He stands from the lower bunk and heads to a miniature kitchen, pulling a container off a machine. He pours some juice into a cup and returns, holding it out to the Soldier impatiently.
The Soldier does not take the proffered drink, and the man’s expression hardens.
“If you’re looking for booze or something, I don’t do that shit. Take this.”
The Soldier obeys, and sips the juice. The fruity taste nearly overwhelms his senses. It is much more vibrant than the protein shakes he is used to.
“Know who I am?” the man asks.
The Soldier stares blankly. He is not a handler, and is providing insufficient nutrition.
“Really, no?” the man asks. “You look like a wrestler, or at least a fan, and you don’t know CM Punk?”
The word punk lights something up in the Soldier’s brain. He thinks he might have known a punk, once. He cannot recall any details, but is somehow sure this CM Punk is not the punk he’d known.
“I knew a punk.” the Soldier says slowly.
“But not me?” CM Punk studies him.
“He seems pretty out of it.” the second voice comments, and the Soldier spots a Black man with long dreadlocks driving the bus. The rest of the bus appears empty, from what he can see from the bed.
“That’s Kofi. He’s my road wife.” CM Punk nods at Kofi.
The Soldier has no clue why they’re introducing themselves. CM Punk waits, as if expecting a response, and finally asks “Well, what’s your name?”
“The Soldier.”
CM Punk snorts. “So you’re using a ring name too, huh? I know you’re not part of WWE. Are you with AEW?”
The Soldier is familiar with many acronyms related to the government, military and espionage, but those are unfamiliar. Is he supposed to know them, and his cognitive malfunctions are blocking the information?
The Soldier’s confusion does not seem to impress CM Punk. The Soldier is supposed to be alert and attentive, but his mind keeps lapsing.
The Soldier snaps to attention at CM Punk’s scrutiny. “Do you even know who you are, right now?”
The Soldier knows he is the Soldier, is HYDRA’s asset, except he’s no longer receiving orders and maintenance and he’s somehow sure his thoughts about a previous punk do not align with being the Soldier.
The longer he takes to reply, the more CM Punk frowns. “Okay, Soldier, what are you on?”
The Soldier brushes his hand over the bed he’s laying on, and CM Punk scoffs. “I meant what drugs.”
The Soldier notices that CM Punk’s knuckles are tattooed with letters that spell “Drug Free”.
The Soldier was routinely given a cocktail of substances but, of course, is not privy to knowing what they were pumping into him. He wonders, suddenly, if the lack of that concoction is causing some of the malfunctions.
Judging from his knuckle tattoos, CM Punk is not a fan of drugs.
“I haven’t had any in-” the Soldier pauses. How long has he been away from HYDRA?
“So you’re trying to get clean?” CM Punk asks, eyeing the Soldier’s twitching form. “Good for you.”
“Are you going to recruit him into the Straight Edge Society?” Kofi asks with a teasing tone. “He has Straight Edge tattooed on his stomach and everything. For the record, your star is cooler than Punk’s Pepsi tattoo.”
The Soldier does not look at the red star emblazoned on the silver shoulder of his prosthetic arm. With a sigh, CM Punk pulls up his sleeve, revealing a symbol on his left shoulder that the Soldier has seen on drink cans.
CM Punk makes it sound as if the drugs were the Soldier’s choice, and that the Soldier decided to go without them. The Soldier has been overwhelmed by the number of choices he’s had now that he’s out from under HYDRA’s thumb, but neither the drugs nor lack of drugs were ever up to him.
“They didn’t tell me what-” the Soldier starts, and clamps his mouth shut.
“Who’s ‘they’?” Kofi asks.
“My handlers.” the Soldier says, without thought. He should not have revealed that, he requires maintenance immediately.
“Did they pump you full of steroids?” CM Punk asks. He is nearly as muscular as the Soldier.
“The drugs ensured compliance.” the Soldier says. They prevented cognitive errors like he’s having now. He is supposed to resist interrogation, but is giving information away while sipping juice.
Maintenance is required.
“That sounds like some cult shit right there.” CM Punk mutters.
“Says the man who runs a cult in the ring.” Kofi shoots back, though his grin looks uneasy in the rearview mirror.
“The Straight Edge Society is a good cause.” CM Punk argues.
“He’d make you shave your head,” Kofi tells the Soldier, as if the Soldier has any say or opinion over his hair being long, short, or shaved off entirely. It’s been long for as long as he remembers, which isn’t long at all.
If CM Punk wants to shave the Soldier’s hair, the Soldier won’t stop him.
The bus pulls off the highway and into a rest stop parking lot. The Soldier wonders if he will be kicked off, left to fend for himself until he collapses again or is discovered by his handlers, or both.
Instead, Kofi and CM Punk swap places, and CM Punk steers the bus back onto the highway. Ahead, a police car’s lights flash, and the Soldier notices both CM Punk and Kofi are as alert as he is.
“We get stopped by cops constantly.” CM Punk tells him. “Cops think they hit the motherload of drug busts, with how Kofi and I look.”
To their collective relief, they pass the patrol car without incident, and CM Punk mutters that the bus at least decreases the number of times they’re pulled over.
“You may not want to hang with us too long, if you’re on the run.” CM Punk tells the Soldier. “This is my bus anyway, not a shelter. But I can get you help or something, I paid for Joey’s house when he was struggling with addiction.”
“No shelters.” the Soldier mutters, and some distant bell rings in his skull, enough to add. “Thanks. For the juice, and the ride.”
“It ain’t going to be fun, riding out that withdrawal.” CM Punk tells him, but this ride is more comfortable than any relocation the Soldier can recall. The twitching and shivering and withdrawal pangs hurt, but the Soldier is constantly in some sort of pain. It doesn’t hurt as much as HYDRA’s conditioning and experiments.
“Are you on the run from a cult?” Kofi asks, eyes wide. “I guess you’re not really a wrestler, even though you look like one?”
“I am proficient in many forms of combat,” the Soldier decides that’s safer than admitting that he’s running from HYDRA.
Kofi kicks back in a booth chair at a small table, picking up a remote for a television by the driver’s seat. “Come up here,” he nods at a sofa on the right side of the bus, near the front.
“That’s my spot.” CM Punk grumbles from the driver’s seat.
The Soldier hesitates, and CM Punk shakes his head. “Go on up there.”
The Soldier complies, sitting on the sofa. Kofi pulls up a video of two fighters in a ring surrounded by ropes, like a boxing arena, and the Soldier realizes that one of them is CM Punk, with longer hair like the Soldier’s.
“See, you totally look like Punk.” Kofi grins.
In the video, CM Punk fights a masked man. It is somewhat like the cage fights of the Soldier’s training, except this match has a massive audience, flashing lights, and long boasts and speeches. The moves are clearly rehearsed, and CM Punk bashes the masked man with a steel chair.
The Soldier cannot imagine having this sort of audience while fighting or training.
Kofi skips forward in the video, and both Kofi and CM Punk are on the screen now.
“You’re really watching yourself?” CM Punk shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the road. “At least put on the Walking Dead or something.”
Kofi keeps the wrestling video going, and the Soldier is perplexed by the performances. Is CM Punk playing a villain? Is he actually a villain? He’s been kinder to the Soldier than the Soldier can ever recall. He’s never been given juice before.
The Soldier would easily be able to win these wrestling matches, but there are far too many witnesses present.
The Soldier starts to point out openings and flaws in technique, and Kofi gives him a look. “You know it’s not real, right?”
“We’re still getting hit with steel chairs. That’s real.” CM Punk mutters from the front seat. Despite seeming shocked that the Soldier didn’t know him, he doesn’t seem thrilled to be hearing his own performances.
The Soldier does not want to fight anymore, and he wonders if CM Punk feels the same way.
The Soldier watches in silence with Kofi for a bit, before CM Punk addresses him. “Where were you headed, Soldier?”
The Soldier knows not to give away destinations, but he hadn’t had a destination in mind this time. There is no extraction location or rendezvous point while on the run. He shrugs his flesh shoulder and answers “Away.”
“From your weird drug cult?” Kofi guesses, as if drugs were the most HYDRA did to the Soldier. “You know, you could probably become a wrestler.”
The Soldier shakes his head. That’s the last thing he wants, and the audience and cameras would make it far too easy for HYDRA to track him down. It’s weird, being able to think about what he wants and doesn’t want. He knows he doesn’t want to be in that ring.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” the Soldier says, and CM Punk nods.
“Whatever you want to do, just stay drug free.” CM Punk tells him, like it’s his choice. The Soldier realizes it really is his choice, now. He doesn’t know where he’s headed, or what he’ll do, but for now, he settles to watch wrestling that he’s decided he won’t participate in and sip some more juice.
