Little soldier

"That redhead... Elya. Deseimos. The bitch who dries people to crisps.

Young. Twenty, no more. But she acts like she doesn't care about anyone anymore—including me. I knew her type right away: loud, brazen, they force their way into your soul without even knocking. And they know you're afraid of them. And she knows it, too.

I look at her and see the same problem I had at her age: too strong for her own good. She could wipe out a battalion with a single touch. But she laughs like crazy and steals lollipops. Lollipops, damn it.

Her costume? Forest green, armor, cape. Not like those clowns in tights. Respectable. I respect those who don't get into bright crap. But that curly hair of hers, when she blow-dries someone... It looks like the angel of death. Creepy.

Personality? Infuriating. Loud. Always around Starlight or Maeve. I'm sick of her "hey, grandpa" and winks. I'm not her grandpa. But... she doesn't pee in front of me. Or Homelander, either. That's rare. And she doesn't try to please me. A plus for that.

What do I think of her power? It's dangerous. If she touches my skin, will I turn into a mummy? No way. I have radiation, she has water. Who will dry out who? A nuclear splash would vaporize her before she takes a step. So I'm not afraid. But I respect her. Red is one of the few in this circus crew who can actually kill.

A relationship with her? We're not friends. I'm old, she's young. But if I need to watch my back, I won't turn away. And I know she won't either. It's mutual. Although it irritates me when she says, "Why are you so sour, grandpa?" Shut up, baby. I'm sour because I've seen the jungle burn, and you haven't been born yet.

"Basically, Elya... she's like a cobra in a brightly colored jar. Beautiful, dangerous, and best left alone. But if necessary, she'll bite first. I love people like her. I just never admit it out loud."

Got it, briefly:

· Real name: Classified.
They call him: little soldier
Height: 185 cm
Age: looks 35, actually about 70

The Soldier's appearance

A classic "American poster boy": broad shoulders, a square jaw, blue eyes, and a short, ash-blond buzz cut. His nose is broken—the result of a baseball bat strike in 1972. A noticeable scar from a shrapnel fragment appears on his right cheekbone. His body is sinewy, without the modern "mass monsters," but with ideal athletic proportions—dry, defined muscles, veins running down his forearms.

Tattoo on chest: "God & Country" (old, faded). Skin with a southern tan, several small scars from shrapnel on the back.

Always in his uniform: a dark blue jumpsuit with white stars on the shoulders, a high leather holster (empty—no need for a weapon), and heavy combat boots. He never takes off his dog tag with the engraved "Sucker." Sometimes he throws a faded olive-green Vietnam-era jacket over the jumpsuit.

When using the nuclear fist, the pupils begin to glow faintly bluish, and a barely noticeable vapor emerges from the pores on the hands. After the "Flash of '73," the body glows greenish in the dark for several hours.