AN: OK, this has been in my head for a while ever since I saw that awesome movie, and I had to get it down on paper. I hope you guys like it, I'll try and update regularly but please try and summon the effort to read and review. The button is there! USE IT!
In Ireland, there are several small Islands dotting the southern coast. No-one on the mainland gave them much bother. They were mere specks on the horizon. Some were owned by people who could afford to buy them, some were used as resorts. There was nothing mysterious about them, although those with an active imagination, not dragged down with ordinary life, facts and physics, made up many stories surrounding them.
Magic lands, a portal of to a different universe and savages living in the wilderness. Unsurprisingly, these were fictions, not facts, but did however ensure an A* in a GCSE marked English assessment and therefore be given Dominoes pizza and chicken strippers as a reward. Who cares if the stories weren't real? Dominoes pizza was brilliant, and it was delish.
Little did they know that a mysterious, mystical person did live on one of those Islands. It was for this very reason, on a grey, dreary day, swamped with hail, downpours and fine mists that soaked you to the bone, a man in a neat, black suit with absolutely no creases,( which in itself was creepy,) and dark sunglasses, spent four hours on a private jet and two more arguing with a young, broke boat owner about the price of a two way trip to the smallest and furthest island. Ten thousand dollars later, Agent Phil Coulson had himself a lift.
The Island itself was beautiful. Gorse, heather and other wild plants covered the hills and from on top of the sheer cliff he had staggered up, Phil could see the faint silhouette of England bordering on the horizon. Nevertheless, he was not enjoying himself very much. He had jetlag, it was raining, and his glasses were splattered with the rain water. Also, his posh black shoes had filled with water and were making sloshing sounds, his socks were soggy, and they were rubbing. He was so going to get blisters.
Phil sighed. He needed to find the girl. The whole world could depend on her and her extra-ordinary gifts. Plus then he could return home. 'God bless America.' He muttered to himself, a reluctant smile tugging at the end of his mouth. He missed the sunshine. Phil turned and walked away from the cliff from where he was seriously contemplating jumping, and putting an end to his misery. But he decided against it, for the pure reason Director Fury would find a way to bring him back from the dead, and kill him all over again. But a lot more painfully. And slowly.
He lurched through some vines, (lurching because he had just tripped over a tree root . . . again) and saw the house. Well, actually he saw the garden first. It was pretty hard to miss, seeing how it was hosting a cow, several chickens and a rather angry looking goat. In addition, the ground was covered in poppies, roses, lilies and whole load more of bright flowers. Then there was the vegetable patch, green tufts that lead down beneath the earth to what he presumed was carrots, Strawberry and raspberry plants, rhubarb, apple and pear trees and a whole load of potatoes. It was pretty impressive and rather painful, to look at, due to the amazingly fluorescing flowers.
Blinking rapidly, and trying to avoid the goat, Phil edged his way to the door bearing flaking paint and a skull and crossbones door knocker, picked it up gingerly, against his better judgment, and rapped it several times against the wood. There was no answer, but the door, slowly and rather creepily, swung forwards. He stepped into the musty, dark interior, hesitantly, because what door swung open by itself and had nothing life threatening, lingering behind it in wait?
As it turns out, he was right. The instincts that had kept him alive for years saved his life now. As the bang went off, half deafening him as it did so, he immediately dived forwards, landing with a painful flump onto the floor, suddenly finding himself tasting the dusty carpet. It didn't taste good.
Cautiously, and painfully ('Damn that floor is hard') he got to his feet and looked behind him, noting the bullet that had lodged itself in the door (which had slammed behind him as weirdly as it had opened) right where his head would have been. Oh yes. She definitely lived here. The clinking of beads sent him whirling back around, peering curiously into the shadows, wanting to see the young lady he had apprehended as a child.
The pale hand that had swept aside the bead curtain, was followed by a short, skinny body clutching a rifle that was still aimed somewhere between Phil's eyes and wearing an ugly scowl on the pretty, but half-starved face.
'Damn' Spa Quartos said coldly, not breaking eye contact with Phil, nor lowering the rifle, (which was beginning to worry Phil, just a little bit).
'I missed.'
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