Who the hell am I (english version)

Good Morning, Sam

Shortly before we left the forest behind, Nat finally regained consciousness. Her green eyes blinked in confusion as she looked around. "Where are we?" was the first thing she asked us. Her voice was rough as she raised a hand to her head. Steve and I had started out while she was still unconscious, and now we were sitting in an old, rundown car we found just a few miles away from the destroyed base, because walking all the way from New Jersey to Washington D.C. was a clear no.

This time, I agreed to drive because Steve definitely needed a break, and Nat wasn't even an option. The night sky stretched above us, stars twinkling between the treetops as the car rolled along the empty roads. I rolled down the window to let the cool night air in, and a glance at the back seat told me Steve and Nat had fallen asleep. It was completely quiet, and with all the thoughts swirling in my head, I welcomed the silence more than ever. I'd had enough of explosions and noise for one day.

"Everything you believe in is a construct of lies."

My grip on the steering wheel tightened involuntarily at the thought of Zola's words. Why can't I shake this? Why do these words sound so much more threatening in my head than they should? It's not just what he said, but especially what he called me: "Mrs. Barnes." The name feels foreign and yet... somehow not. Goosebumps spread across my arms as I try to comprehend the meaning behind it. Why did he call me that? I try to tell myself that maybe my real last name is Barnes and there was simply a mistake at the hospital back then, but deep down, something stirs, as if a long-forgotten puzzle piece had found its place in a vast construct of many small parts.

"It's amazing how easily memories can be taken."

I lost my memories in a car accident, but I don't think that's what Zola meant, and I especially don't know if that story even aligns with the truth. Then the dreams of Bucky come to mind, the ones that keep haunting me—the moments that feel so real, as if I actually lived them. So far, I've dismissed them as fantasies, a product of my mind, but what if it's more? What if these dreams... are memories? The thought digs deeper into my consciousness as I stare into the darkness ahead of me. I laugh derisively at myself. That's ridiculous. Maybe we should be more concerned about me than Nat, because it seems I've taken a really hard hit to the head.

It's just before 7 a.m. when I pull the car into Sam's driveway and turn off the engine. "Wake up, you two," I call to the sleepyheads in the back. Is that drool coming out of Nat's mouth? Yuck. Before we leave the car, I carefully scan our surroundings, even though the chances that someone followed us are slim. The streets had been almost deserted all night. We exit the car, and Steve supports Nat, who still struggles to stay on her feet, probably having sprained her ankle, but she would ignore that, let alone admit it. In this moment, we look at each other for the first time. Yeah, we look like three runaway chimney sweeps. I can't wait to see Sam's face.

We walk up the small gravel path to his patio door. I knock, praying that he's home. I hear something fall inside, followed by Sam muttering a curse, which I hope Steve didn't catch. He's given up calling out "language" whenever I launch into a string of curses. The curtains pull aside, and Sam's face appears. His eyes almost pop out of his head as he slowly opens the door. "Good morning, Sam," I say with the sweetest smile I can muster in this situation. Sam rubs his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Good morning, Elora," he replies, drawn out. I'd say he's happy to see us. "What happened this time?" he asks, clearly shocked, and he won't let us inside until we give him an answer. We all start talking at once. "We didn't know where else to go," I say. "We need to lay low," Steve interrupts. "Everyone we know wants to kill us," Nat adds, looking pained. Now Sam looks even more confused, but our desperate faces seem to be enough of an answer for him. He steps aside, gesturing for us to come in. "No, not everyone wants to kill you," he says with a smile as we slip into the safety of his home. Sam quickly glances outside to ensure no one saw us, then shuts the door and closes the blinds. He points us to the bathroom and offers us the chance to wash up before we give him a full explanation. The last time I was this excited for a shower was on my first day at S.H.I.E.L.D., and that's saying something.