I opened my eyes to a tall, muscular, blond man with broad shoulders sitting before me. He wore jeans and a blue shirt with a black jacket over top. I felt like I had seen him before.

     "Hey!" His face lit up, and he seemed pleased that I was awake. He then introduced himself, saying, "My name is Steve Rogers. What's your name?"

     I stared back at him blankly.

     "It's okay if you don't know the answer." He smiled comfortingly.

     I made no response.

     "I'm here to help you." His face was soft, and his eyes kind, but they were likely not genuine or trustworthy.

     "Do you understand English?" Steve asked. "Maybe you only know Russian?"

     When I did not answer, he pulled out a device and looked worried as he spoke into it. "She's awake."

     "How is she?" a muffled voice asked anxiously.

     "She looks alright. I've tried talking to her in English, but she doesn't seem to understand..." Steve's voice trailed off.

     "So you want me to come over and speak Russian with her?"

     "No, not really."

     "Why not?"

     Steve clenched his jaw tightly together. "The last time she saw you, she nearly killed you. That's not a chance I'm willing to take."

     "This is my choice, not yours. Besides, unless you speak Russian, how else are we going to find out if she understands it?"

     Steve's facial expression showed that he knew that whoever was on the other side of the device was right, but he was still not happy about it. "Okay. I'll text you directions. See you in a few."

     While Steve was typing away at his device, I began to analyze my surroundings. It was some kind of abandoned industrial building. My metal arm was held tightly in a huge piece of machinery that smelled of fish, and I sat on an old wooden slat crate. After a few attempts to pull my limb free, I realized it was futile.

     Several minutes later a man with shoulder length brown hair came in. This man was missing his left arm. He wore jeans and a maroon shirt with a flannel on top, which were all a little too small for him. I knew him. From the shape of his face to the lilt of his voice to the way he moved, I knew him.

     "Меня зовут Баки. Баки Барнс," he introduced himself with a sad smile.

     I did not know him by this name. So he is using an alias, a wise decision on his part.

     "Я знаю, ты умеешь говорить."

     My silence challenged his claim.

     He leaned in closer to me. "Я знаю, ты тоже знаешь английский."

     The fact that he knew both of the languages I spoke disturbed me, but I did not give him the pleasure of seeing my discomfort.

     "Вы помните меня?" he asked inquisitively.

     I wondered what angle he was trying to work by, seeing if I remembered him.

     "Тебе сложно вспомнить, не так ли? Это просто кусочки и кусочки, разбросанные тут и там, и вы не знаете, что реально, а что нет?"

     I questioned whether or not this man could actually read my thoughts.

     "Плохие люди сделали тебе плохие вещи. Ты помнишь это?"

     Grimacing, I tried to get rid of the horrible images that came into my mind.

     His voice broke with emotion when he said, "Те же самые плохие люди сделали и со мной плохие вещи. Они забрали мою память и заставили делать плохие поступки." Tears ran down his face.

     Removing the long sleeve of the flannel from his left shoulder and pushing up the shirt's sleeve showed what was left of a metal arm just like mine. It even bore the same blood-red star.

     "Они сделали это с нами обоими. Мы такие же, как я и ты."

     His sad blue eyes met my own. "Я с тобой честен. Можешь быть со мной честным."

     Somehow, I believed him.

     Gently, he asked, "Как твое имя?"

     "Меня звали Солдат," I told him soberly.

     "She doesn't even know her own name. When I asked her, she said it was Soldat. All she remembers being called is 'Soldier,'" Bucky told Steve.

     "We can't call her that. She needs a name," Steve replied.

     Bucky countered, "We can't just give her a name either. She's a person and already has one."

     "How about a nickname then?" Steve suggested.

     "Doll would work and she could use Dolly if she has to give her name," Bucky offered.

     Steve agreed. "That's fine by me."

     "Мы достаточно долго продержали эту шараду, не так ли? Я знаю, он хотел бы понять, о чем мы говорим," Bucky said as he motioned to Steve.

     "Отлично," I conceded.

     Bucky turned to Steve. "She knows English, apparently."

     Steve frowned at me and then said, "Doll, you need to know some things before we let you out."

     "You are a fugitive. If you go outside, you will be spotted and reported to the authorities. Every law enforcement agency in the world is looking for you and has orders to kill you on sight by any means necessary," Bucky disclosed.

     "How do I know you aren't law enforcement?" I asked Steve pointedly.

     He replied, "We're international fugitives."

     "Ah. So you will turn me in to gain your own pardons. Smart."

     "No, it's complicated," Bucky answered.

     Sarcastically, I said, "Don't tell me. You're all innocent, right?"

     "There was a disaster. Because we were not able to save everyone, people died. So, the United Nations drew up a document to prevent another such tragedy from happening. Only in doing so, they took away our rights as human beings and our freedom of choice. We chose not to sign the document. A lot of people weren't too happy about that and now here we are," Steve explained.

     "Nice story. I need proof," I said skeptically.

Steve handed me a newspaper with the heading "КАПИТАН АМЕРИКА ОТКАЗЫВАЕТСЯ ПОДПИСАТЬ ДОГОВОРЫ СОКОВИИ И ТЕПЕРЬ НЕУДАЧА" and a picture of Steve on the front.

     "Captain America? The World War II hero?"

     Steve smiled. "Yes, that's me. Steve Rogers."

     "That's impossible. He's dead," I stated matter-of-factly.

     "Well, not exactly," he chuckled. "I was in the ice for almost 70 years and didn't die because of the Super Soldier Serum."

     "That can't be true," I remarked incredulously.

     "You can look it up for yourself later, Doll. He's telling the truth," Bucky reassured me.

     "There is also some personal incentive for you to stay with us. A king is going to contact us and extract us," Steve announced.

     "What king?"

     Steve said, "His name is T'Challa, and he is the King of Wakanda."

     "Then why don't I recognize the name or nation of this said 'king'?" I asked dubiously.

     "He just became king. His father, King T'Chaka, was killed in a terrorist bombing three days ago," Bucky explained.

      "Hmm. Tell me about Whaka-na-da."

     "It's a small, landlocked, third-world, isolationist, African kingdom. Landscape is mountains and dense forest. People are shepherds and farmers. Known for its textiles and cool outfits," Steve informed me.

     "Perfect," I muttered.

     "At least that's what they want the world to believe. We have reasons to believe that they have something incredible that they are not telling us about," Steve added.

     "So I'm just supposed to take my chances with a pair of international fugitives and the promise of an African king whose nation is impoverished?" 

     The duo nodded.

     "I don't like those odds, but there are also not many offers on the table." I sighed. "I'm in."

     Steve came over and released my metal arm from the piece of machinery. Freedom tasted so sweet, but it was not long-lived.

     "You need to get in there so we can safely get you back to our apartment," Steve told me as he pointed to a large black bag.

     I reluctantly climbed into the duffle bag and watched Steve and Bucky disappear from view as it was zipped closed.