My name is Melora Zherdev and I thought my Uncle Mischa was a terrorist.

Pretty dramatic, but honestly, he'd gotten a lot more cynical and unpleasant the last few years, and I'm not sure if it's because he was getting older, or if he really couldn't stand politics anymore. The man was always grumbling about bombings and government agencies and of course the Cold War. Sometimes I think he meant the observations he made, and sometimes I wonder if it was all an act; he could be pretty cagey about things at times. Uncle Mischa still went to work every day at the jewelry store to repair watches, even though he could have retired years ago. Frankly I'm glad he got out of the house on a regular basis because now that was just him and me we got on each other's nerves.

He was the last relative I had, though, and he let me live with him here nearly rent-free, so I wasn't going to gripe too much about it. My commute's not too bad, and even though Uncle Mischa wouldn't let me upgrade any of the plumbing and heating, we managed. We were that house at the end of the cul de sac near the bridge . . . the only one left on the block that wasn't foreclosed and that was because Uncle bought it waaay back in the early Fifties so he owned the deed outright. He and my Aunt 'Milla had lived here for nearly fifty years, which wasn't too bad for first generation immigrants.

It was just him and me now, though, and it was . . . complicated. He didn't really want me here, but he was getting too frail to stay on his own, and absolutely refused to move. At the same time, he also wouldn't let me do anything to make access easier for him. I couldn't hire anybody to put in easy risers, or re-landscape the walkway and heaven forbid I look at the furnace or even go into the basement. It wasn't as if I couldn't pay for it, or at least cover most of it; I make pretty good money. I know for a fact that developers have been trying to buy out this last little neighborhood for years, and why my aunt and uncle didn't take their offers stumped the hell out of me. Maybe in its day it was a nice view of the river, but now . . . not so much with the loom of bridge and the garbage that floats past.

Ugh.

Still, Uncle Mischa was family, and if there's one thing my parents drilled into me, it was a sense of duty. That, and keeping up with my Russian. Dad was an accountant, and he'd probably still be around if he hadn't had a three pack a day cigarette habit. Mom outlived him by about a decade, but she stepped into a crosswalk mid-town and was killed when a truck hit her three years ago. That left me with my Aunt and Uncle, who took me in and didn't let me leave.

For a while I didn't mind; I was the only kid the four of them ever had and they spoiled me, always called me their secret charm; their special gift. Dad used to worry about me a lot, and always walked me to and from school, always reminded me not to talk to strangers, that sort of thing. When he died, mom and the other two doubled up on the warnings until I felt like every time I stepped out the door was a matter of life or death.

I got rebellious for a few months in my teen years, and that only freaked them out. Over and over my mom would moan I'd be the death of her, and the guilt trip wore me down because under it all I knew they loved me and were trying to show me that. Pretty typical I guess, but sometimes I did have the feeling I was being watched. Once when I was nine, mom picked me up and told me we were going to spend the night in the city. I loved it, except for the part where she wouldn't take me home to pack, and later when we couldn't get back for a long time because some Ambassador had been shot and the roads were closed.

Still, My family were all good to me, and by the time Aunt 'Milla didn't make it through her chemotherapy, it came down to Uncle Mischa and me left here trying not to drive each other too crazy. It had been getting tougher though. I didn't feel safe here, even though we had locks and floodlights. Uncle Mischa had a gun and I still had both mom and dad's somewhere in the attic I think, not that I'd be much good with them. Dad only took me to the range once, and mom gave him hell about it for weeks, shouting at him that he was going to get me killed and that laying low was the most important thing.

Not crazy about guns, actually, but this close to the city they're a fact of life. I'm much better at defending myself with my hands and feet, thanks to ten years of judo. My parents approved of that, and paid for it, so I'm grateful. Twice I've laid would-be muggers flat on their asses, and once I dealt with an overly-friendly fellow on the subway who thought it was his right to cop a feel during my commute home before I got a car. I may not be able to shoot very well, but I can handle anyone getting into my personal space.

That being said, I was feeling pretty spooked when I noticed that someone had been calling the house line and hanging up. Yeah, we still had a land-line—I know, I know, ancient technology but my uncle insisted. Anyway, hang-ups were creepy on our old phone because you didn't have caller ID to screen them, and half the time Uncle Mischa didn't even seem to realize the phone is ringing. The only people who called us anyway were Dad's old accounting firm, Hardy Global, and sometimes Doctor Z's office, and I was sort of glad they were still keeping tabs on us.

Anyway, I mentioned the phone calls to Uncle and he got agitated and started watching the news much more, insisting I get him both the national and international newspapers. I tried to humor him, but picking up copies of Pravda isn't easy these days, so I was late getting back. Most of the TV stations were covering the destruction out in DC, and everyone was tense about it, talking about exactly how the Triskelion went down and exactly who was responsible for it. I didn't think Captain America was, but some of the channels had footage of him fighting soldiers and it was hard to figure out who they were.

Politics aren't my strong point anyway.

I drove up into our cul de sac and something went off in my head; just a sense of unease. The two houses on either side of ours were still empty and locked up; both had security systems so there weren't any squatters or meth houses here, but I still couldn't shake the sense of unease. Uncle Mischa met me on the porch, waving his cane and looking totally furious.

"Go back to the city Melora! Right now!" He ordered me in Russian.

"What? Why?" I wanted to know. I mean Uncle could be gruff but I hadn't gotten any indication that he wanted me gone or anything. We squabbled a bit, but nothing serious enough to warrant him throwing me out. Still, he looked deadly serious, glaring at me as I came towards him, papers under my arm.

"Because I said so! It's very important you do what I say right now!"

That made me mad. I'd gone out of my way to get him his papers and here he was, ungrateful as hell about it. I stomped my way past him and into the house, throwing my armful of newsprint down on the table and snarling a little myself. "I've just spent an hour getting home and I'm not about to turn around and go back! Besides, why should I? I know you own this house but I live here too!"

Then Uncle snapped back something about security and I had a good retort all lined up but when an arm slipped out of the shadows behind him and held a gun to his temple I shut up quick. The figure at my Uncle Mischa's shoulder was in the shadows, but I got the impression of a business suit. I froze.

Uncle gave a little quiver. "She knows nothing; let me send her away!"

"She's of the Bloodline. She stays," The man replied, and his monotone put just that much more chill into me hearing it. I'm not brave, not at all, and I probably would have started crying if he'd turned the gun on me, but all I could do was stare like an animal in headlights. He pushed Uncle forward and when they came into the house I saw that the man with the gun looked like any one of a thousand men from the city—suit, tie, decent shoes, average height. Put him in a crowd outside any office building and he'd blend right in.

He herded Uncle in and made a right towards the kitchen.

"Good evening, Miss Zherdev. Please set your cell phone and keys on the table," he told me. "Now."

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded as I slowly did what he asked.

"I'm the one in charge," he replied, and smiled.

I hated him right then. He had me and my uncle hostage and I could tell he liked the feeling of power it gave him. From the look on Uncle's face I could tell he sensed it too, but he held my gaze to keep me from doing anything stupid.

"Not helpful," I muttered. "We don't have any money, so if you're looking to rob us you've wasted your time."

It bothered me that he'd spoken Russian earlier.

"I'm not here for money, Miss Zherdev, as your uncle well knows."

"She's innocent, Dobrov, innocent! Let her go!"

"She's hardly that now, is she?" The man—Dobrov I guess—said. "Perfect health, no diseases, and no infections despite living near a cesspool of humanity. It's amazing how certain projects can thrive even in difficult environments. We may have need of her tonight, and if not, well, there is always the future."

"Creeping me out," I told him. To Uncle I added, "I should have listened to you."

"Now she agrees with me," Uncle replied, but he managed a ghost of a smile and I felt better.

"If you had run we would have found you," Dobrov interrupted softly. "You are as important as Mischa here, believe me. "

I heard footsteps on the porch and another figure came in, this one a woman. She was dressed for the city as well, but she had a knife instead of a gun; it disappeared up her sleeve like a magic trick.

"The perimeter is clear," she announced. "If he's coming in, we'll be ready. Is this the donor?"

"What?" I didn't like the sound of that as ALL, but Dobrov nodded.

"Yes. Confine her, please, while Mischa and I wait."

"Confine—okay, really, what the hell is going on? Who's coming, why am I a donor, what bloodline are you talk-" I had to stop because the woman had the knife back out and at my throat.

"Things will be explained on a need-to-know basis, and right now . . . you don't need to know," she murmured almost kindly. "We're going to the basement."

Uncle gave a little twitch, but Dobrov guided him to one of the kitchen chairs and made him sit. Uncle looked pale and I hoped his blood pressure wasn't shooting up too high.

"Don't hurt him," I blurted.

Doborov nodded, almost politely. "I hope I don't have to, Miss Zherdev. Keep in mind his continued good health is partially up to you."

Not a lot of choice, and not a lot of room to fight, so I went with the woman, who put the knife along my back as we headed for the stairs. She was alert enough to keep me from trying anything and down we went, through the now unlocked door and into the basement.

I was expecting a damp, dreary place with maybe a single light bulb overhead, and filled with old boxes and the water heater . . . you know, a typical basement. Instead, it was . . . like an operating room. White tile, scary looking machinery. On the floor were dank canvas tarps that had probably been hiding all this stuff over the years. I tried to look around but the woman pushed me over to an old wooden chair and made me sit down. She ziptied my wrist to one of the water pipes going up the wall, and then went around clearing the tarps away and flicking on switches while I watched her.

"Are you with the NSA? FBI?" I asked, even though deep inside I was pretty sure she wasn't.

She rolled her eyes. "They really have kept you like a mushroom, haven't they? You're lucky you're potentially useful, Zherdev. No, we're not with Homeland Security or any other little jingoistic group you can think of. We're bigger than that."

I held my tongue, hoping she'd say more—she seemed like the type and sure enough, she did, shooting me a contemptuous little look. "Your relatives were members of HYDRA, and by extension, so are you, even if you don't know it. Your blood type—O Negative—was carefully cultivated and augmented when you were a baby so that you would be a perfect living donor for one of our greatest assets. Your family was planted here on the off-chance you might have the chance to serve, and it looks like that time has come."

"HYDRA? Like the mythical monster?"

"We have a few concepts in common," the woman muttered, and pulled out a sealed box from under the stairs. She laid out a tray of what looked like medical tools, setting it all up with an efficiency that was starting to scare the crap out of me. When she was me watching, she waved one of the bigger syringes in my direction. "I hope you have the good sense not to struggle, Zherdev. Dobrov and I would prefer not to have to knock you out. At least, I would prefer not to."

I shot her a hateful look. "You're not getting any of my blood."

"Oh yes we are, if it's needed. Your whole purpose in life is to be a donor, and that's not limited to just blood by the way," she told me as she began wiping down her hands with antibacterial gel.

Now the fear was really setting in, and I began to consider whether kicking, screaming and biting would help delay anything. I'm not brave, I'm really not, and everything this bitch was saying didn't help matters. I was worried for Uncle too, and knew that nobody would find us for days, maybe even weeks if worst came to worst. I tensed up, looking towards the woman and getting ready to strike when I caught a flicker of movement from behind her.

The man moved faster than anyone I'd ever seen, even my judo teacher, and wrapped his left arm around her neck. She tried to twist but he tightened it and I watched her pass out after making a few smothered squeaky sounds. He let her slump to the floor and stepped around her, then looked at me and put a finger—a metal finger—to his lips in a sign not to make a sound.

I didn't. Believe me, I didn't. He nodded slowly and looked up towards the stairs and while he did that I got a look at him under the lights. Light-framed but strong, clearly. He wore what looked like second-hand clothing and had his hair stuffed under a baseball cap—sort of homeless looking. I had no idea how he'd gotten in—he must have been here the whole time, and I think that terrified me most of all. Someone who got past not only Uncle, but past these two spies as well . . . yeah the neighborhood really was getting dangerous now.

Still, he wasn't making any threatening moves towards me, and certainly he didn't look like he was going start waving syringes in my direction.

Footsteps overhead got louder, spooking us both. I watched him pull a tarp over the woman, hiding her for the moment, and then he slipped back out of sight behind the water heater in the corner. Since I didn't want to give him away, I turned my head and looked at one of the machines. It had large dials, and a very Fifties appearance to it—retro as all hell, in fact. I swear the surface was enameled. The stairs creaked and I held my breath as out of the corner of my eye I noted both Uncle and the other man's feet coming into view.

"Gloria, have you got . . ." the man began, herding Uncle Mischa down and looking into the basement. "Gloria?"

For a moment the three of us sort of looked at each other. It's not a huge basement, but even so, there weren't too many places out of the line of sight, and Dobrov looked suspicious. He started to speak, "Where's Gl-" when the man surged out, caught Dobrov and twisted his grip free of Uncle before slamming him to the floor. It was a beautiful move, really, and I envied how smoothly he did it.

Dobrov gave a grunt and tried to shift, but the man planted a big grungy boot on his chest to keep him down.

"Nyet," The man said, and his voice was low and a little raspy. "Stay."

"We are here to help you," Dobrov shifted to Russian easily, and his tone was a lot more conciliatory than it had been with Uncle and me.

"Don't believe him!" Uncle broke in. "They need you more than ever now!"

None of this was making a lot of sense to me, although I guessed that whoever the strange guy was, he seemed to be the one the two bad guys had been waiting for all along, and that this house—hell, MY house—was some sort of station or checkpoint or safe haven for him. It was a hell of a lot to take in, particularly after a full day of work and no food since lunch. I tried to catch Uncle's eye. "Are you all right?"

"Shut up!" Dobrov snapped at me and Uncle, before looking up at the stranger again. "Pay no attention to them; they're useless expendables. Your mission is over; it is time to return!"

The stranger looked at me and Uncle, then with a lot of hesitation took his foot off of Dobrov and stepped back to let him get up. Dobrov wasn't happy but he kept his voice soothing. "That's better. Now let us help you stand down."

"No!" Uncle snapped, "No more! For fifty years my family was waited and given up our chances at a real life, and for what? For this? For nothing! Hydra has done nothing for us! My brother, dead! My sister in law, dead! My 'Milla, joy of my life, denied treatment and dead!"

Then Uncle added, "Fuck Hydra! This is what I give for Hydra!" and spat on the floor.

I blinked. Dobrov looked like someone had just goosed him with a live wire, but the stranger . . . oh the stranger . . . laughed.

It was rusty and slow, but it was a real laugh and it sounded especially creepy here in the basement. I could feel goosebumps and not in a good way either.

Dobrov snarled and lunged for Uncle, hands around his throat. It didn't take much; Uncle was thirty pounds lighter and sixty years older. I gasped, but the ziptie held me back as my uncle fell to the ground, his head at an unnatural angle.

"You Bastard!" I shrieked, and said it again in English, with a lot more emphasis. "Oh you motherfucker, I will rip your head off and use it for soccer practice! I will pull your balls up around your shoulders and skin your prick with a carrot peeler!"

Dobrov smacked me across the mouth for that, and my head rocked from the blow, but I was almost glad because I was already in pain. Sure I hadn't gotten along with Uncle all the time but he was family. He was all I had left, and now I didn't even have him. I teared up, but I was too mad to just cry, so I spit out some blood and was about to mouth off again when the stranger reached over and grabbed Dobrov's shoulder, squeezing it.

Dobrov gasped.

"Stop," The stranger ordered in a flat voice. "There's no need."

But Dobrov wasn't quite ready to give up his authority, and he tried to give the stranger a reassuring smile. I noticed that he was slipping his hand into his pocket though, even as he spoke.

"He was an old fool and not worth anything. Now you need to let us examine you-" Dobrov pulled out a weird little device that apparently the stranger recognized, because he started to cringe a little. I was close enough that I lashed out a foot and hit Dobrov on the outside of his knee, and believe me I didn't hold back against that bastard. He grunted and dropped the device, and this time his voice wasn't nice at all. "You little stupid BITCH!"

He whirled and gave me another backhand across the face with the device and I felt the thing slice a gouge along the edge of my lower lip. Shit it stung, and I cried out even as my lip started to spurt blood. Because I was sort of caught up in my own pain I didn't catch what happened, but suddenly Dobrov wasn't in front of me, and just when I tried to lift my head, I felt something grab my leg.

Gloria was awake and trying to get up. I looked at her blearily since I wasn't focusing too well. She was staring at the stranger and I could see why: he had just gotten Dobrov in a bear hug annnnnd cracked his spine.

Shit. Shitshitshit! I couldn't think, I couldn't do anything but watch stupidly as blood dripped off my chin. Gloria didn't seem to be in any hurry to get closer to the stranger, who dropped Dobrov and looked a little perplexed at what he'd done.

"You're . . . confused," she started in a sort of squeaky voice. I guess seeing your partner snapped like a dry breadstick puts the fear of God into you. "I can help you, Winter Soldier."

For a moment he stood there, swaying a little bit under the hanging lights in the basement while I licked at the blood on my lip and watched him. It dawned on me that he was in fact righteously hot, and that was such a stupid, useless thought that I laughed.

He must have heard it, because the stranger came out of his indecision and just stared at me and Gloria. "That's . . . not my name," he told us, and took a few steps our way. Gloria scrambled back, terrified, and was almost sitting in my lap when he hooked one of his metal fingers into the ziptie and ripped it off with a tug. I let my hand drop down but didn't move while Gloria held hers up to push him back.

Her knife popped out, winking in the light.

"Stop! I order you to stop! Your mission is over; it's time to return to the Motherland!" Gloria babbled. I could smell the acrid stink of her fear, even over my own blood, and I shifted her a bit. She squirmed, but the stranger grabbed her wrist, staring at her blade.

"No," was all he said, and pushed her away, hard. She skittered across the basement, hit one of the machines, and then passed out again on the floor. I stood up, trying not to let the dizziness get to me, and looked at the stranger, sticking my chin out.

"Thanks," I managed.

He looked around and seemed uncertain what to do for a few seconds. He started for the stairs, but I managed to slip in front of him, blocking his way. "Whoa, wait! So you're just going to leave me here?"

The stranger looked at me like an owl, big eyes, unblinking. It was unnerving as hell and it got my back up a little, so I went on. "Oh come on, man! Bad enough that my u-uncle's dead, but with two . . . agents or whatever here and all this blood and these weird machines . . . and I didn't do any of this but I'm damn sure nobody's going to believe that! You can't just ditch me with this mess and walk away like it's all right! This is America, buck-o; we don't do shit like this!"

And he flinched. Swear to God he flinched, wiping a hand to get his bangs out of his eyes and for a second I felt sorry for him, which was weird because it was pretty clear that he was some sort of trained assassin or something, especially with the metal hand.

I took a breath and shifted to Russian. "Look, I owe you, I do, and I don't know if you've got a plan or money or anything, but I'm getting out of here and I know a safe spot where I can lay low. You can come along if you don't have any place else to go, okay?"

"Dah," he managed in a voice so soft and so tired that I almost didn't hear it.

So I reached out, took his metal hand and squeezed it. "Good. Come on; I need my phone and keys and a few other things."