I left Burning Man two days early, a giant wad of unspent cash tucked into my boots, tired and impatient. I don't really know why I went. The moment I stepped on the bus I instantly thought about who'd come looking for me, about how long it'd take before I got tracked down. I left a browser open on my laptop, a little hint, something to make the clock run just a little faster. I was bored and I needed to get away, I just…almost wanted to be found.
When I stepped inside the house they were all there, circling around him. He stood in the corner like a child, hidden away. I didn't care what father had to say, what his lecture sounded like, how the fatigue-clad agents had their barrels pointed at my feet. They were planning to send him after me. He was their unofficial pet, the fetching dog. God, how much was this guy getting paid to drag me home when I ran off?
I wanted to talk to him, at least know the name of the guy who gave me a permanent shiner. I'd taken fencing this past year, Bartitsu before that. I was faster now, lighter; I vowed that next time I wasn't going to be brought back. Well, I guess Burning Man doesn't count.
But I wasn't angry when I first saw his face, worn and dusted with hair. I was curious, nosy. He had blue eyes, pretty ones that looked like they could have been kind once, a stance that reeked of military.
Father must have been in love with him; he probably obsessed over his orders, the details he would give. 'Bring her back alive. You can break her legs; no, not the femur, it won't heal in time for exams. Yes, her radius, but not the right one! She needs it to write. Make sure her eyes stay intact, she has a ballet recital next month.' That's how I imagined their huddles went, how my retrievals were planned right down to the fractures. The bruises made for good stories, though. Our housekeeper will believe anything I say.
I should think of him as a robot, strictly adhering to his orders, but I can't. His job is to keep me miserable, to paddle me back to Alexander like waterfowl. And to keep his trap shut, apparently. Who was this person, this ghost that could track me like game, who had clearance to kill people, kids?
No, wait, I am angry. I'm furious at them both.
Father wouldn't leave me alone with him, but I stomped up as if we were, ready to strike, to land one good punch. I had nothing to lose. This extension of my patriarch's oppression couldn't fight me on my turf; he was at beck-and-call, tied to SHIELD or the army or the government. 'Go on, try to stop me'. I'll have your pin pulled by 0600.
Those were the words that rang through my head when I jumped into the hangar of an old Beechcraft outside of Rabat in Morocco. I flew to Africa under a fake name and visa, and I paid the pilot a thousand euros to fly me to Egypt, right on the outskirts of Saqqarah. It took a week, maybe two to hitchhike to Giza, and I squatted in an apartment behind a jewelry store. It was nice, and I mean that.
I made friends like one cooks; a basic set of instructions (don't say your real name, where you're from, why you're here; sound as uninteresting as possible) followed by a few genuine ingredients: laughter, tears, stories.
I played chess with the old men in the square and I ate fresh figs for dinner, listened to bands play in carpeted basements. When I'd been gone ("missing") for ten days I started to think about the Asset, about whether he was searching for me. He probably was. At first it made me grin, maniacal laughter in my head. Oh, you'll never find me!
But as ten days turned into fifteen I began to wonder, to think less and less of his duties, of his worship of my father and SHIELD. I thought about his face, the twisted distortion when I asked for his name, the alien-like healing of his mortal wounds, the grinding of his jaw when I asked him what he remembered. I've seen the Avengers, I know what a supersoldier looks like. This must have been the darkside of it.
He didn't remember me. At all. My name came out of his mouth like it was empty, like a foreign word. How could he forget something that had happened six months ago, a year ago? His own name? All the anger I had saved for him slipped down my back when I saw him search desperately for an answer, for a memory.
It disgusted me, made my belly slick with oil, my limbs heavy. Whatever training he'd had to do, whatever trauma he'd endured that made him forget who he was, that was what made me afraid. Maybe of SHIELD more than him. This person wasn't human, but then he was very much so. I saw it in his face, his eyes. Gunmetal blue eyes.
After twenty days I began to wear a Shayla over my hair, to look over my shoulder, sneak into my home at night and check the dark corners. It still wasn't enough.
A woman had performed with her husband and nephews in the basement of a laundromat one night, her voice resonating in the hookah smoke, rich like the tea I was poured. I stayed longer than I should have, and the sky was black by the time I began my walk home, icy wind flittering through the fabric of my headdress.
When I turned a corner the square was empty sans a long black van, and I froze. Not a soul in the street, nobody. I saw the car and took a step back, figuring I would cut through the alley and hideout until the morning, float up the Nile, take a bus to Isreal, maybe fly to Athens. Plans A, B, C, D, and F for get the Fuck out of there.
But when I turned he was on the other end of the road, hands on the grips of a motorcycle at the opposite side of the passageway, yellow streetlights reflecting in the glint of his metal shoulder.
Instantly I was off, cutting through a backway between houses and buildings. We were on the outskirts of the city, where the town meets the desert. I was calling out, I couldn't help it, and when I ran up to a group of men parked on the side of the road I yanked the door open, sliding inside, spewing broken Arabic and French.
They were confused, asking me what I was running from, staring out of the windows, and when I heard the rumble of an engine, saw the singular headlight glowing at the end of the street, I screeched. "Yaqud! Drive!"
The wheels burned against the gravel and they drove over the city limits, towards the Necropolis. The motorcycle gained speed, catching up with the car, and I was yelling, screaming, telling them to go faster, to duck down, but it was over in an instant. A shot rang out and blood sprayed across the windshield, painting my face and neck. The wheel turned and we skidded to a stop, my head slamming against the window.
I jumped out, bursting into a run, ignoring the sound of gunshots behind me as I wailed, my legs burning, taking me farther and farther into the desert, cold air stealing my headscarf in the wind. I could hear him, long legs catching up to me, pounding into the sand. I thought I was really outrunning him until I felt the whipping sound of something behind me, the sharp pain in my thigh that brought me down, sand spraying all around me, in my eyes and mouth.
Before I would see what I'd been stabbed with he was already over me, yanking it out with force and kicking me over. I hate the sound of my own scream.
A long iron knife hung in his hands, and when he reached down to take a fistful of my hair I kicked his knee, sending him to the ground. I blocked his blows, punching and shoving in just the right spots that could keep him off of me until I got to me feet. Somehow I knocked him forward and got to my feet, sprinting against the fire in my leg for a few more steps.
I couldn't do this for long, I couldn't outrun him like this. I didn't anticipate getting stabbed. I have to surrender, to stall him for a second.
I spun around and stopped, putting my hands in the air before he could tackle me again. "Wait! Stop! Stop. I'm not running!" I spoke hurriedly, panting and stumbling in the sand. The grains beside my injured leg curdled with dark trails of blood.
He had the knife ready to throw at my other leg, but I moved my hands wildly. "I'm not gonna run, okay?" I could see the massive shapes in my peripheral vision, jutting up into the sky, housing the gods. I was going to try to distract him. Humanize him. I could get his knife, get him down long enough to get back to the car, drive to Cairo. I'm not going back, not going back, not going back.
"Look. Look." I stretched a hand out, but his eyes stayed locked on me, fists clenched tight. I had only pissed him off. When he stepped closer I fell to my knees, feigning submission. "LOOK, Soldier!" I pointed to the right, and for a second he was mortal again, glancing to the horizon.
Not even a half a mile away were the pyramids, 450 feet high, blooming in the moonlight. "Do you know what those are? Do you know what you're looking at?!" I panted, and his eyes attached to the monuments, eyebrows knitting together. Yes, keep looking. I could see a gun holstered at his thigh, the seal unsnapped, safety off.
"You know, you know who made those?" I pitched, my knees scraping closer to his leg, bullshitting words as they came out of my mouth. "Slaves; people who did anything their king told them to." His eyes scanned over the skyline, staring out into the distance. Just a little closer. "They built those, brick by brick," almost there, "just to show how powerful he was, how many people he had control over." I took my chance and pounced, slipping the gun from its case and rolling back, pointing it right at his face.
He looked down at me as I stood, stepping back. People like you. I should just shoot him, just kill him, show my father that I'm not a ball to be fetched. They can't have me.
But I can't pull the trigger. The wind picks up, carrying dusty sheets of sand across my skin, and I can see him staring at me, sweaty strands of hair flying around his face, his eyebrows woven. I take another step back and he stays still. The gun's heavy in my hands, slippery in my palms. He looks almost hurt, almost like he recognizes me. Almost.
"What's my name?" I ask, knee wobbling from the pain in my thigh. The hair around my face sticks to the tears in my eyes, clouding my vision. I can't see what he's thinking, if he's thinking at all.
"What's my name, Ass-hat?!" I ask, and as if in answer a bright light shines over us, the roar of a helicopter deafening me. It catches me off guard and he jumps forward, yanking the gun out of my hands and whipping the handle across my chin, knocking me down. His metal arm wraps across my chest and turns me over before he starts to punch me in the mouth and temple, over and over. I'm faced towards the pyramids, and when he lifts me up and starts to carry me towards the aircraft I mumble with my swollen tongue. "Just another brick."
I pass out before we take off, my vision gone, but I hear something, a grunt, a voice above me; "Ruby."