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     Steve and I walk out of the building with our new clothes. He leads me behind the storekeeper's shop and sets down his shield.
     "Much better," he breathes. "Now, we need to figure out how the shield is going to be covered."
     "Way ahead of you." I say.
     I sit on the ground with the shield and pull it closer to me, the painted side on the ground. I take a black scarf that we have just purchased and tie it around the arm handles. I do the same to the other one using another black scarf and then hold it up to Steve.
     "You're so smart." he says.
     "I know," I hum.
     I go behind him and command him to put it on. He does as I tell him to and puts on my contraption.
     "It fits!" Steve exclaims. "It will work."
     I go through the plastic bag that the lady gave us and find the black cloak and other black scarf. I wrap the scarf around his neck, so that it covers his mouth. I order him to put on the cloak while I get myself situated. Once I have my scarf on, I glance at him and laugh.
     "Aren't I beautiful?" he asks, pulling up his hood.
     "Yes, yes you are." I say sarcastically.
     I put on my dark gray cloak and pull up my hood. Steve gives me a thumbs up.
     "Let's go," he says.

•••

     After throwing the plastic bag away, we come upon the H.Y.D.R.A. base's landing area. Steve and I walk behind a landed aircraft, and then go inside. It is small, only containing one person. I shoot him with my handgun and hide his body in a closet. The engine of the aircraft is still shutting down, from just landing.
     "You can only speak French, got it?" I whisper to Steve.
     "Got it. I won't speak." he says.
     We go back out of the aircraft. A H.Y.D.R.A. agent walks toward us, raising an eyebrow.
     "Where is the pilot?" the agent asks us.
     Steve looks at the agent questionably, acting as if he has no idea what he is saying.
     "Sir," I say in my best French accent. "We were brought here by the pilot. My brother here cannot speak English, only French. Please, the pilot has already left the aircraft and we do not know where to go."
     "Hmm," the agent contemplates. "Very well then. Follow me."
     I sigh relief and Steve and I follow the agent. We are led through the landing area and into the building. The inside of the building proves that the place was once a warehouse. The old shelves were converted into stairs and there are multiple levels. Agents scurry about, following orders and conversing with each other.
     "In here," the British agent says, pointing to a door.
     Steve and I walk through the door with the agent. There is a mahogany desk with stacks of papers and a laptop on it. A black leather chair spins around from behind the desk, revealing the person.
     "Why, hello there," a German agent says.  "I wasn't expecting you until tonight."
      "Would you like me to leave you three alone, boss?" the British agent asks.
     "Yes," the German one says.
     The British agent scurries out of his boss's office, leaving the three of us alone.
     "I suppose you do not recall my name?" the agent asks.
     "No sir," I say in the French accent.
     "My name is Bernard Hoffmann. I am the leader of this place. You can't possibly know anything about H.Y.D.R.A., or do you?"
     "Some," I say nervously.
     "You are lying," he says. "You know much about us."
     He walks closer to us, examining us. "And although you do not know much about me, I know everything about you."
     I gulp, not wanting him to continue.
     "Yes, I do Miss Stark." he says, pulling down my scarf.
     I gasp, not wanting to move. Steve sidesteps closer to me and pulls my gun from my pocket. He aims at Hoffmann, his finger on the trigger.
     "And I know who you are, Captain America." Hoffmann slurs.
     Hoffmann walks closer to me; consequently, Steve gets ticked off.
     "Take one more step and your little minions won't see you ever again." Steve threatens.
     "Haha," Hoffmann sneers. "Captain, you don't usually act this protective. Does Captain America have a little cr-"
     Steve shoots. Hoffmann falls to the floor, blood pouring from his corpse. I glance at Steve, whose face is as red as a tomato.
     "Let's get out of here," he says.
     "Wait," I say, looking at the floor. "It's the box."
     We rush to the cardboard box, opening its contents. There is a piece of paper and a flash drive. I snatch the things up and put them in my jean pocket.
     "Now let's go." I say.

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