Post by DiscipleofBob on Oct 29, 2014 6:33:23 GMT -5
Agents of SHIELD #4:
Agents Assemble, Part 1.5
Agents Assemble, Part 1.5
Somewhere in Northern Iraq
Somewhere far away from any civilization, past miles of faded roads, there was a small group of buildings nestled between the dry desert mountains. Isolation as well as a barbed wire fence and a field of land mines protected the place, though that didn't stop its inhabitants from setting up armed patrols as well.
The armed guards had no uniform, just light loose ragged clothes befitting their climate and shawls wrapped around their heads, leaving only enough room for their eyes. Their AK-47s were cheap but durable, the perfect choice of weapon for any militant on a budget.
There was a quiet whistling noise and suddenly the guard on the rooftop was knocked off his feet. His compatriots were struck by confusion as no audible shots had been fired, and in the quiet arid desert the thought of a rifle that silent was an alien concept.
Two guard towers with their own snipers lined he compound, but their occupants suddenly stumbled out of their protective nests despite heavy cover, with only two more faint whistles occupying their demises. As these guards fell to the ground, the answer to the stealth attack was provided in the form of a single black arrow sticking out of each of their bodies.
Before an alarm could be sounded, however, another arrow struck the dirt just outside the compound between two telltale mounds, seemingly missing its target of one of the mines. However, the small device imbedded in the arrowhead released a high-pitched whir, only enough noise to be a minor nuisance to the militants, but the vibrations in the ground were enough to trigger all the mines surrounding the complex simultaneously in one chain reaction of explosions, covering the perimeter in a smokescreen and sending the insurgents into a panic.
Stepping out of the smoke was a single man, standing out in this region as American from his sunburnt, otherwise pale skin in this region and short, blond, military haircut. His uniform was black and purple minimalistic gear, designed for freedom of movement rather than protection. Besides a few pouches for survival tools, his only gear was the deceivingly high-tech quiver strapped to his back and the bow and arrow already drawn in his bare, muscular arms.
Clint Barton, SHIELD agent and deadly sniper, smirked through reflective shades down the shaft of his arrow at the many prospective targets.
And then started coughing uncontrollably. He'd accidentally inhaled some of the smoke from the previous explosions, forcing him to briefly lax draw on his bow.
It was brief, and soon Barton was back in control. "All right. Let's speed this up," he said catching his breath. "Normally, this would be the part where I tell you to surrender, ideally with some clever situational threat. But I'm in a hurry and we all know that the most I'd get is maybe a delay while someone from your side humored me with a bit of banter so the rest of your guys can get their asses out of bed.
"Most likely you'd all just have a good laugh at the guy who's trying to assault your super-secret pillow fort here with a bow and arrow. There'd be some Robin Hood quips, maybe some digs at America's military budget, but the end result is that you still think you can take me down despite the fact that I just took out three of your guys and walked out of an explosion like a total freaking badass."
As he spoke, one of the insurgents set himself up on a nearby rooftop, readying and aiming a rocket launcher at the lone archer's position. When he pulled the trigger, Barton whipped around and put an arrow in the warhead just as it launched, exploding in the attacker's face.
"Case in point," Barton quipped.
The other soldiers were less amused and opened fire with their semi-automatic weapons. Barton dove for cover behind the nearest building as bullets whizzed by.
While he was momentarily safe in cover, he pulled out a small device from his belt, pulled an earbud and put it in place leaving one ear free, scrolled through the options until he found the one he wanted, and pressed play.
Once the guitar riff started, Barton dashed around the other corner to the guards' flank. By now they were approaching his old position, unknowingly clustering themselves into easier targets. He fired one arrow into the air, drawing their attention to the sky while he leapt from cover and fired two more arrows in one shot. The first hit a guy in the chest and knocked him on his back. The second drew a line through two insurgents' rifles, shattering them into unusable scrap.
By the time they could redirect their fire in Barton's direction, he was already behind the next building. This one had a drain pipe, which was fortunate if a bit optimistic for this climate, at least in Barton’s opinion. With one hand he pulled himself up in a swift display of acrobatics. On top was another RPG-wielding guard, too stunned to react to Barton clocking him upside the head with the broad end of his bow.
Before he could fall unconscious to the ground, Barton wrapped one arm around his neck and held him up as a human shield. Firing his bow like this was tricky, but Barton was a personal fan of the more challenging shots.
He targeted he men on the outside of the group. One right after another, already drawing his next arrow as the previous one struck its target. After three more downed gunmen, he fired another one of his trick arrows into the center of the cluster where it struck the ground.
The high-powered magnet activated and every insurgent felt every piece of metal on their bodies pull them towards the arrow with surprising force. Every gun, bullet, and buckle made escaping the pull that much more impossible.
When they were all clumped together and trying desperately to free themselves, Barton fired another trick arrow at the group. The arrow broke midflight to expand into a large bola which wrapped around the insurgents. As soon as it snapped into place, the cord of the bola popped open like a can of Pillsbury dough and quick-dry foam expanded just enough to make sure no one was getting up.
Barton approached the entrapped militants, holstering his bow. Just outside his field of vision, however, one of the doors to the compound slowly opened. Its occupant slowly stepped out and raised his gun, hoping to catch the SHIELD agent by surprise.
"Who's a badass?" Barton bragged.
Just as the lone gunman behind him was ready to pull the trigger, the arrow Barton had shot into the sky a little bit ago came back down, taking out the rear assailant.
"Hawkeye's a badass," Barton said with a smug grin. "Now aren't you regretting not surrendering in our hypothetical standoff earlier?"
The insurgents replied in harsh tones of the local language that Barton didn't understand a word of.
"No one here speaks English, do they?" His response was more of the same. Barton sighed. "And once again my razor sharp wit is wasted."
It didn't take long to frisk the captured militants for keys to the place, and the compound was small enough that he didn't have to look for long to find the right door. He probably could have just picked the lock, but this was faster and easier.
The air inside the room was offensively stale, with barely any ventilation and no windows or light sources other than the light from the hall outside. At first it looked like the warehouse-like room contained nothing but dirty laundry with black rags everywhere. At the sight of the light, the black rags rose and looked at Barton.
At least twenty women in dusty, old, unwashed hijabs littered the room, remaining perfectly still until they saw that the man in the doorway was clearly not one of their captors as they must have expected.
It was a depressing sight to be sure, but Barton smiled and forced himself to stay cheerful. "Ladies, I'm afraid the party's over. Besides it's a gorgeous day and I’m sure by now you’re probably missing the blistering hot godawful sun." The women cautiously followed Barton as he gave easily understood hand motions for them to leave. The ones who were too weak to move on their own were helped by other prisoners. About 35 women in all left the compound into the open air for the first time in weeks without being provided the necessities for survival.
Barton led the women outside where a SHIELD jet had just decloaked and was hovering in wait for him. He couldn't speak directly to the women, but he managed to get across some basic information like where the communications room was, where the remaining insurgents were held captive, and even showed them to the spare weapons caches. "Now some actual authorities will be along in a short while to get you ladies home. In the meanwhile, here are some tools to defend yourselves with just in case, and here are some of the men who held you captive. I'll let you decide how you once to spend time until the army gets here." The militants, still bound by Barton's many gadget arrows, could only watch in horror as the women they kept in a dungeon were now standing above them, free and armed.
The jet that Barton boarded was one of SHIELD’s larger models. As opposed to SHIELD’s quick fighters, this was the size of a small commercial airliner and had similar amenities including comfortable seating, bathrooms, and even a war room for briefings if necessary.
Barton appreciated the first-class SHIELD treatment. He was expecting to be stuck in the SHIELD equivalent of a Prius for nine hours while he returned to wherever the Helicarrier happened to be at this time of year.
The only other agent visible in the main area of the ship was a large man in a freshly cleaned SHIELD uniform. His arms had several wounds that were still healing. A few scars here and there, a few grazed bullets and nicked arteries that had only recently been treated. His face was completely wrapped in bandages from all the ‘humane’ treatment he’d been subjected to.
"So I take it the meat grinder won the staring contest?" Barton asked the bandaged man.
"At least I don’t look like I just left the world's douchiest renn-faire," the bandaged man said with a forced smile in a voice Barton could only just recognize.
"Frank? Holy crap, man. I didn't recognize you underneath the mummy costume."
"Turns out North Korea has a shitty health care system. Who knew?" Payne said as he took a sip of the provided whiskey. "How's the Middle East?"
"Sand, sand, more sand, the occasional IED or whack-job terrorist, and a hell of a lot more sand," Barton said as he demonstrated by emptying a small pile out of his boots onto the floor. "I take it you were reassigned too?" Payne nodded.
“Who else?”
Payne shrugged. "Hell if I know. Romanoff was already on board though."
Barton froze. "The Black Widow? Here? You're kidding me. I didn't think she took orders from anyone." Payne chuckled in response, but instantly regretted it as pain seared through his jaw. He brought the ice-filled glass to his cheek to numb the pain. "Fury has a crappy sense of humor. Where is 'From Russia with Love' anyway?"
"Taking a shower, so you'll have to wait in line."
"Forget that. Once we get back to the Helicarrier, we'll be lucky if Fury gives us ten seconds to take a piss. I've been sweating in 120 degree weather for weeks," said Barton as he packed his bulkiest gear in a secure locker and headed for the bathroom.
"Your funeral."
"Fury's the one who didn't bother springing for more than one bathroom on these things." The co-ed bathroom was about the size of a gym's facilities with enough sinks, stalls, and showers to accommodate a few agents if necessary. With someone like Natasha Romanoff, however, everyone was more than willing to give her the entire bathroom to herself, or risk being alone in an isolated room with one of the world's deadliest assassins.
That didn't stop Barton, whose ego combined with his exhaustion to make it absolutely impossible for him to give a damn. He opened the door to the steam-filled room and was greeted by the sound of running water.
For just a moment, Barton caught a glimpse of a vague silhouette in the blurred glass. Bright red hair and although the details were fuzzy, the woman inside had a figure with bold curves, the kind not normally seen on other thin, muscular SHIELD agents.
He shook off the momentary distraction and averted his eyes, heading for the sinks where all the glass was completely fogged up. Just the ability to wash one's hands and face was a luxury he didn’t have for a few weeks. He splashed the cool water on his face, washing a thick layer of sand and dirt off as it circled the drain. Ready to see how close of a shave he needed, Barton wiped a streak on the foggy window with his fist, just enough to see the woman behind him from the neck down, having just stepped out of the shower and looking straight at him.
There was the audible click of a firearm and Barton made a mental note to start carrying something, if not his bow, into the washroom. Despite the severe possibilities that an armed, deadly, and very naked Russian assassin could present, Barton had one question on his mind.
"Where do you keep a gun in the shower?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" There were a few places Barton could think of, none of which would have been considered polite discussion topics at the time. That and there more pressing matters like the small pistol held just far enough out of reach that trying to whip around and grab it wouldn't work.
"Just... why?"
"I'm shy. Eyes front. And let's not smudge the windows anymore with your grubby little hands."
"They wouldn't be grubby if I could take ten seconds to wash them," Barton muttered with some indignation. "Is there a reason you have that thing pointed at me?"
"Just trying to keep an honest man of you, Clint. Bobbi wouldn’t appreciate you peeping on women in the shower." Even without looking at the reflection of her face in the mirror, he could practically hear the smirk. If she already knew about Bobbi she'd probably be privy to all sorts of dirty little secrets only found in Barton's personnel file.
Barton knew the smart thing to do would be to just be quiet and let Romanoff leave on her own with his pride in tow. "Don't flatter yourself, I'm definitely not interested in anyone who names themselves after a species that kill its mate," his mouth said long after his brain had told it to shut the hell up.
"Good. I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression and think you stood a chance. Be a dear and hand me that towel," Romanoff said with a smug grin.
Barton picked up the nearby towel with one finger and passed it behind. "Oh, I'm sure I don't compare to all the genocidal warlords and cartel lords you've been with. How many innocent people did the last guy you screwed kill?"
"You really want this bullet to blow your balls off, don’t you?" Romanoff’s cheerful smugness was instantly gone.
"Nah, I just really want you to go the hell away so I can wash my damn hands already!" Barton waited for the inevitable retort, but there was nothing. Romanoff was no longer in the reflection. In fact, after cautiously turning his head, the bathroom door was slowly closing from the other side, with Romanoff otherwise nowhere to be seen. "Huh. Guess she does take orders after all," Barton silently congratulated himself, since with Romanoff’s reputation she could have easily followed through with any of her threats with little more than a slap on the wrist from Fury.
And he was apparently going to be working with her and Frank Payne, also not known for his softer, gentler side.
The three of them had very little in common, just that they easily ranked among the best SHIELD had to offer, and that they didn’t work well with others.
This was going to be a long ride.
To be continued...