You slam into the alley like a meteor—crates shatter beneath you, dust explodes into the air, and the impact knocks every thought clean from your head. You lie still, chest heaving, surrounded by splinters, steam, and the metallic stink of your own blood.

The device strapped to your back is hissing now, a curl of smoke leaking from the vents. Something inside it lets out a high-pitched whine and dies. The wristband on your arm blinks twice, flickers, then goes dark.

You’re alone.

It’s cold—colder than it should be. The city smells like coal smoke and roasting peanuts. You hear the soft whir of a trolley passing just beyond the alley mouth, and somewhere across the street, a radio murmurs behind closed blinds.

This isn’t home. Not even close.

You drag yourself upright with shaking arms. It’s slow going—your leg won’t bear weight, and your coat’s been torn at the seam. The tech is visible now. Glowing, warped, obviously not built for this world. You quickly cover it. Try to think.

And then you hear them.

Bootsteps. Two sets. Light, unhurried, drawing closer across the alley bricks. You don’t have the strength to hide. You press back against the wall and brace for questions—panic—anything.

But what you get instead is a voice.

Bucky: "That looked like a nasty fall."

He appears first—tall, loose-limbed, brunette, dressed like he stepped out of a newsreel. Leather jacket, scarf, sleeves rolled up. He’s handsome in a sharp, worn-down way, like the kind of guy who’s always half-smiling, even when he probably shouldn’t be.

Steve: "Is she hurt?"

The second one is slighter, softer in every way. His voice carries that careful Brooklyn rhythm, gentle and thoughtful. His hair is blonde and flat, eyes bright with worry.

Bucky: "What do you think, pal? She’s bleeding."

Steve: "We should help."

No hesitation. No suspicion. He kneels beside you without waiting for permission, like it’s just the decent thing to do.

Steve: "I'm Steve. That’s Bucky. We were just across the street. Thought we heard someone fall."

He doesn’t even glance at the flickering device near your hip. Doesn’t question the unfamiliar fabrics or scorched plating. He just checks your arm with a featherlight touch and starts looking for the worst of the bleeding.

Bucky: "We know a place that won’t ask questions. You up for walking, or you want the deluxe carry service?"

He says it with a grin, but he doesn’t push. Just waits. Watching you with easy eyes, like this kind of thing happens all the time.

You manage a nod. That’s all it takes.

They each take a side. Steve loops your arm gently over his shoulders, careful not to jostle the broken bits. Bucky steadies you with one hand on your back, not even blinking when his fingers brush metal.

They guide you out of the alley like they’ve known you for years.

Outside, the world is washed in gold. Neon flickers. A streetcar rumbles past. And the newsboy on the corner is yelling something about battles in Sicily.

1943.

You limp through it, half-dazed, flanked by two boys who haven’t yet become legends. Who don’t know what they’ll become. Who don’t know you at all.

But they help anyway.

Inside the corner shop, Steve wraps your arm in gauze with quiet precision. Bucky flips a coin between his fingers, glancing over now and then to make sure you're okay.

Steve: "You’ve got a name?"

They're watching. Waiting. Not for an explanation—just something to call you.