THE JOURNEY WAS LONG, YET SHE DID NOT WAKE.
She did not wake until they were far beyond the borders of the States, far across the North Atlantic, and inside the borders of a country considered third-world.
She rubbed her eyes open, blinking at the harsh lighting that decorated the cylindrical room. She did not know where she was, of course, and could not see any life.
Yet, she made no motion to move. Something inside her settled, and...

For once, she felt at home.

She did not consider the compound a home. Nor did she know where it was situated, but that was the only place she knew. The only rooms she remembered.
She dragged a hand through her hair, the braids being taken out. Miraculously, it had been returned to her natural blonde. Had they died her hair while she slept? Why would one do such a thing? She automatically assumed her contacts had been taken from her, and her bag rummaged through. She tried not to think about the object she was to retrieve, and that they had their hands on it. Her senses flared as steps echoed through the otherwise silent room, the rustle of thick material along with it.
She turned her head, taking in the sight of a dark-clothed man. He held himself with high respect, shoulders back, chin up. There was faint traces of a smile on his lips, and he crouched to her level, "I am glad you're awake."

She tilted her head, having not recognised the accent. She was familiar with the American, with her own at the compound, but there was nothing to pinpoint their geographical location. They were somewhere far away, farther than she comprehended.
"Where am I?"

He did not answer her question, instead, he turned and beckoned for her to follow. Her feet tingled on the cold tiles, the bare skin making contact. She tugged at the white shift that was thrown over her. She did not remember wearing the colour before. She pushed her loose hair out of her face, faint strands still carrying the red tinge.
She was able to make a neat pace with the strange man, and as she walked she was able to commit his face to memory.
She imagined he was a fighter, from the stance he held himself at, and the faint traces of muscles rippling under his long sleeves. His eyes were trained forward, but she could tell her saw her every movement.
A soldier, then.
But the clothing he wore, the intricate weaving on the canvas-like material, it was of high standard. No soldier, unless he was wealthy, would be able to afford such design. The areas they walked through threw her off as well, she did not expect to be taken to such a modern place. Maybe a shed, in the middle of the Sahara desert would be more fitting. Yet, here she was, and there was the man beside her.
He was direct with the passages he took, and his eyes darted to his side, keeping a close eye on her. She thought he would've expected her to run by now, but she was no fool. She'd bide her time, save her energy, then she would make her move. It was a waiting came, and these pieces before her were the pawns. She would make her way through the characters until her knife was at the king's throat.
A gust of wind blew her hair back, and she held a hand above her face as a door opened down another hall. Another clue, then. It meant that this place was not underground like the compound she became so familiar too. There must be windows around, and she'd be able to get her bearings.
The man paused before a door, knocking softly. She did not hear the response inside, but the man must've heard it. Even for her advanced hearing, the thing or person inside must have been too quiet. They must've known about her.

Her mouth ran dry as she took in the figure inside. The two men greeted each other. It was not Father, no, nor was it anyone from the compound. She had hoped for Doctor Petrov, but then again, he would have used the machine on her again. They'd tell her about malfunctioning, and if it happened again, it was the end of the line.
She did not expect, though, for the man from her strange dreams to appear before her. His left arm — her right — was not there, like her dreams, his hair was tied back, and he wore a white shift — just like her.
She had to blink twice before believing the sight. Her dreams were brief, but she did not forget a single detail about them. He was not real, was he? How could one become real? Was she dreaming now?
"Hello." He towered over her.

She felt like a child. She'd always had a respectable height and Peter—
Who was Peter?
She covered her face with a hand, biting down hard on her bottom lip. She was dreaming, surely. Who was Peter? Why was her train of thought running in that direction?
She glared at the man before her as he looked down, "I— I'm Bucky, what's your name?"

She grit her teeth, she was being treated like a child. The nerve some have. She was no less a child than an adult. The things she'd seen, the things done to her—
"I do not have a name." She replied.

"I'm sure you do."

"I do not have a name." She repeated, more to herself. Her voice broke, and she gripped her right hand, right over the scar. It was taught to defend itself and its owner, and soon enough, it would lash out. She'd have no control, "I...I do not have n-name."

"What did they call you, then?"

How did he know? How did he know about them, about Father and Doctor Petrov and all those others like her? Even if they took her out, buried her in the hard Earth below, there would always be another to take her place.
She stumbled back, mind reeling. She couldn't say anything, Father would be coming for her, she knew that. They'd made a deal, and there was no going back. She retrieved his object, and now she had to find a way to return it.
"Hey...I know this is hard, but can you remember?"

She did not hear his question, but she...she did remember something.
The Winter Soldier. He had a metal arm, right? So...so...
She screamed, pushing herself against the wall. She was acting so weak, why was this? Where were these emotions coming from? They were flooding her senses, the very same that she had honed to perfection during endless hours of training. She— she was afraid.
Machines were not made to be afraid.
These emotions were overtaking her. Things she had not experienced. Memories would soon follow, and she'd collapse from the weight. There was nothing to hold her back, nothing to keep her in check. The chain was snapped, and so was she.

The man with the one arm took steps back, a glazed look clouding his eyes. There were two unstable survivors in the same room. Who thought this was a 'dandy' idea?
She shook her head, sinking to her knees. How did she know he was a survivor? Who was he, in the first place? He said his name was Bucky — and she could not remember where she had heard his name before. There was something there, though. Something tingling in the back of her mind.
She wrapped her arms around her legs, pulling them close to her chest in an upright fetal position. She could not keep her mind in check. She was broken, and there was nothing they could do, except let her lash out. The leash was gone, and so was the compound. She knew, even though she didn't believe it at first, that there was no home for her at the compound anymore. She would never return. She would've died there if they never let her out. They never looked at the risks the right way, sending out a girl people would know.
People knew her, yet she couldn't remember her own name.
It was something her real parents must've given her, not the compound. They only gave numbers to subjects, detaching the subjects from humanity. She hardly ever ate there as well, being fed through IV. When she came to America, she had to learn how to eat. She hardly knew how to talk, let alone chew food.
Her mind was gone, and insanity was only left. She could—

No, she shouldn't. There was only one option for her now. Recovery was not part of her. There was no going back, she would spiral into insanity, and no one would be able to pull her back. They'd lock her up, and she'd be left to die.
That seemed plausible. Justifiable. Anyone who heard her story, which she would doubt be told in a nice light, would say she deserved her end. She would be buried in a nameless grave, and she was content to have that.
"Hey, hey, hey, you still with me?"

The man— his name she could remember, Bucky, — knelt down before her. His hand gripped her shoulder, and there was a reassuring smile on his face.
She did not take in the scars that dotted his skin, but his eyes trailed down to hers, where her hand laid mangled, the palm scar tissue, and the top sliced.
"I know you."

She tilted her head, "You know me?"

"Yeah, I've heard of you. Bronwen, right? Bronwen Deirdre?"

She nodded, the name familiar to her ears. Bronwen was right, that was her name.
She forced her lips into a painful smile.

She was not Emily.

She was not 024.

No, she was Bronwen, Bronwen Deirdre.

"Yes." She whispered, looking up at Bucky.

He nodded, "Okay. Well, Bronwen, do you want something to eat?"

She shook her head, she was not hungry. She was tired, she wanted to sleep all of her demons away.
"I know it's going to be tough," Bucky said, "But I'll be there for you. It'll take a long time, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel, I promise."

A light at the end of the tunnel sounded promising enough.