Title: Leap of Faith (How The Mighty Fall)
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: K+
Warnings: Clint's got a potty mouth, slightly graphic descriptions of injuries, crazy bad guys and exploding objects. Oh, and Clint falls from high places...
Summary: "One target unaccounted for, sir-"
"Barton, move!"
Clint didn't hesitate, reacting on instinct to the sound of Coulson's raised voice in his ear as the narrow perch beneath his booted feet disintegrated.
Leap of Faith (How The Mighty Fall)
Chapter 1: High Places
The day's call-out couldn't have happened at a less convenient time; or at least Clint thought so. With Sitwell, Hill and Fury having circles run around them by the WSC, and Natasha undercover somewhere in Prague, it'd left Clint, Coulson and two of the rookie juniors to hold off the latest shenanigans from the Villain Of The Week... It was clear from the very start that odds hadn't been stacked far in their favour.
Coating the summer air with the reek of burning rubber, the patent black S.H.I.E.L.D van had barely screeched to a halt in the streets of lower Manhattan before Agent Phil Coulson was out, I.D in hand, as he assumed charge of the situation from the New York Police Department despite their vehement protests. His first order was for Clint to hit higher ground. "We're going to need eyes up top. Wait for my confirmation, Hawkeye."
"Yes, sir." With a sloppy salute Clint shouldered his gear and headed straight for the building with the best sight lines, mouth turned up in a lopsided grin.
Within three minutes Clint was in position, bow out and arrow nocked as he sucked in a calming breath and held it, drawing on his sniper-borne focus as he settled into place. It was surprisingly simple to get a lock on the cause of panic from the emptying streets below - a twenty-something, greasy-haired kid waving a large, beaten suitcase around whilst bellowing at the top of his lungs about science experiments, government conspiracies, and terrorism. Clint spied Coulson and the juniors from the corner of his eye, watching as they created a tight perimeter around "buckets-of-crazy" and strategically moved in. Barton couldn't help but wonder why the local PD hadn't managed to handle this one without them.
His unspoken question answered itself less than a heartbeat later as the young man's suitcase flew open with the flick of a finger, releasing a clatter of large, plate-sized metal discs to the floor. A hushed silence fell over the remaining crowd of onlookers, Coulson's steady voice in his ear ordering the team to remain ready and in position.
Things, quite naturally, went downhill from there.
The first sign something was seriously wrong was the shrill bark of laughter from their target, his head thrown back to the sunlit sky. The eerie sound carried to Clint's position and raised the hairs on the back of his neck, sending an ominous chill down his spine. If ever there was an omen that the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan, that was the only warning Clint needed. The archer adjusted position minutely and refocused his gaze on the young man, unwilling to let the Oscar-worthy performance distract him and ready to release the kill-shot the instant Coulson's order came.
The discs of metal chose that moment to start vibrating, violently shifting from their static position to hover unsteadily above the ground.
"Coulson..."
"Negative, Hawkeye. Wait for my signal."
More than confident in his handler's abilities, Clint stifled the sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach, keen eyes flicking between the now stationary young man and the hovering metal.
"Have NYPD move all civilians back. I want a two-hundred foot perimeter and I want it ten minutes ago." The archer couldn't hold back his smirk at the sound of Coulson's commanding voice through the comms, grateful that Phil seemed to be picking up on the sense of looming disaster permeating the air just as easily as he was.
With little warning the first of the metal discs shot away from position, travelling almost too quick for Clint to follow. "Woah, not good. Sir?"
"Keep eyes on that metal, Barton. I'll cover the Stark wannabe."
"Affirmative." The 'Stark wannabe' was currently having a conversation with himself, it seemed. "Permission to shoot the Frisbee, sir?" Scanning the area, Clint spotted the rogue disc as it slowed, hovering sixty feet above ground level, which conveniently put it a good forty feet below his current position.
"Frisbee, Barton?"
"Uh, yeah... What else would you call them, sir? They're round and they fly through the air." Enough said.
"We'll discuss your innate urge to name things later, shall we?" Clint was certain he heard a chuckle across the comms but knew Phil would neither confirm nor deny if he called him on it. "Permission granted to shoot the 'Frisbee'. And try not to accidentally hit anyone in uniform, will you? We've upset NYPD enough for one day, I think."
"Sure thing, boss." Taking aim, Clint loosed the arrow before the disc could change position, hitting it dead centre.
The explosion and resulting 360 degree shockwave was unexpected enough to knock him flat on his ass, ears ringing.
"Damn..."
"Hawkeye, report."
Who knew flying, silver discs of metal could be so dangerous? Whatever happened to the good ol' days when people used knives and guns to cause chaos? That's what Clint wanted to know. Instead they had to put up with alien sea creatures, beings from alternate planes of reality, and megalomaniacal scientists that made Frisbees into bombs.
"Alive and kickin', sir." Climbing gingerly to his feet, Clint brushed dust and brick from his pants. "No injuries to report," he added as an afterthought, knowing it'd be the next question out of his handler as he returned to his original position; bow clutched firmly between his fingers.
"Sir," a new voice joined them on comms. "The metal...things? They're all on the move." Clint recognised the timid voice as that of the curly-haired rookie he'd literally bumped straight into a few hours earlier. Short and skinny with a nervous twitch under his left eye, Clint couldn't help but wonder how desperate S.H.I.E.L.D had to be for recruits if this was supposed to be one of their most promising. The kid had practically choked on his own tongue trying to apologise for walking into Clint, and he hadn't even been the one at fault.
"Acknowledged, Agent Bryant," was Coulson's even reply. "Keep focus on the target, if you will."
With the discs now all in the air, Clint could count at least twenty - which was nineteen more than he was strictly comfortable with. "Switching to EMP, sir. Not sure I feel like blowing up all of Manhattan today. I'm hoping the EMP will knock 'em out."
"Acknowledged; preparing to move in on the target in thirty seconds." Clint knew that Coulson wouldn't make his move until he was certain everything was in place; that nothing unexpected could derail his plan too spectacularly and anything that did go wrong could easily be worked around.
"Roger that."
As Clint watched, half of the discs matched the path of the original one, hitting sixty feet and hovering with seemingly no urgency. The remaining half separated and scattered in every possible direction, no obvious pattern discernible. "Sneaky bastards..."
"Get that perimeter moved back to four-hundred feet, now. Team, we move in on five. On my count; ready?"
Clint tuned them out, concentrating fully on his own task. With the realisation that the Frisbees were explosive, the last thing he needed was them taking out Coulson and the team on the ground. Without hesitation Clint fired, the EMP arrow striking true as ten disabled sentient Frisbees dropped from the sky.
"Heads up, sir; EMP's a go. Ten down."
"Copy that."
Clint fired a second and third arrow in quick succession, taking down a further scattered six, when a sharp blow to his shoulder sent him reeling forwards. "Sonofa-" Only balance honed from years as a circus brat kept him from toppling from the roof of the building as a rogue Frisbee attacked. A follow up blow to the other side of his head knocked him straight over the edge anyway.
Not allowing himself the time to panic, Hawkeye twisted gracefully mid-air, latching onto a narrow ledge twenty feet below his original position with the fingers of one hand. Clint had to blink rapidly to clear his vision as he sought the source of his attack, hanging precariously from his fingertips as his boots scrabbled desperately for a foothold. A glint of silver from the corner of his eye was all the warning he had before the metal disc struck again, the outer edge painfully sharp as it cut into his armoured vest and sliced easily through the first few layers of skin at his shoulder before retreating. Using the bow in his free hand as a baton, Clint managed to deflect the next attack and sent the metal careening into the wall a storey below him, belatedly realising his mistake. "Shit, shit, shit..."
The shockwave from the explosion helped propel the archer up onto the narrow ledge and to momentary safety.
"Barton, report!" Coulson's voice over the comms was tense, concern clear in his demand for a response. Stealing a moment to catch his breath, Clint checked the damage to his vest before answering.
"Still standing, sir. Three targets remaining."
He prayed the senior agent wouldn't challenge him on his current state of health, the warm trail of blood dripping from the cut at the side of his head and the uncomfortable tackiness around the shoulder of his vest not something he could play ignorant to for long. Thankfully no further enquiries came.
The remaining metal discs chose that moment to converge on Clint from different directions all at once, clearly sentient enough to pick the archer out as their greatest threat. Drawing his bow, careful to keep his balance on the narrow ledge, Clint nocked and fired, hitting two with his EMP arrow as they crossed paths before the third rose from sight faster than even he could track.
Damn it. "One target unaccounted for, sir-"
"Barton, move!"
Clint didn't hesitate, reacting on instinct to the sound of Coulson's raised voice in his ear as the narrow perch beneath his booted feet disintegrated. Hooking his recurve and quiver over one shoulder he launched himself into an adrenaline-fuelled free-fall, the only viable option available as the remaining sentient frisbee attempted to take him out with its final, kamikaze blow.
The concussive wave from the explosion above sent Clint careening into the wall as he tried desperately to grab hold of something, anything, to slow his momentum, succeeding only in tearing his fingernails to shreds and skinning the arm without his bracer from shoulder to elbow in the process. "Fuck!"
A little under sixty feet from the ground the archer stubbornly ignored the concrete floor rushing up to greet him at an alarming pace. Clint forced his brain to block out the sound of his handler's worried voice in his ear, focusing his attention on the scenery zooming past in his peripheral and on remaining as calm as humanly possible. If he allowed himself to listen to Coulson and the panicked chatter on the comms from the rest of the team he was likely to freak out and that would only lead to him crashing and burning spectacularly - quite literally in this case.
Clint had fallen from heights before; too many times to count. The goal was to land feet first, concentrating the force of impact on a smaller area so his feet and legs could absorb the brunt of it. It was highly likely to result in a broken leg - or two - but broken bones were far more preferable than death.
A swift glance at the ground had Clint's heart in his throat. He was eighty percent certain he was about to die a painful and horrific death as he plummeted closer and closer to the concrete with each passing breath. Shoving the thought away to re-visit at a later date - quite likely never - the archer willed himself to relax. Too much tension in his body would only transfer force more directly to his vital organs upon landing and Clint liked his organs just the way they were, thank you very much.
With one final inhale and a muttered prayer under his breath, Clint prepared his body for the rough landing, unhooking his bow and quiver and launching them as far from him as possible. There was no escaping it - this was going to hurt like a bitch and he didn't need landing on his prized weapon to make things a thousand times worse – or even more painful.
Pointing his toes with the intent to land on the balls of his feet, Clint fought the urge to close his eyes as he finally hit the ground, his bent knees and considerable momentum jerking him forwards. Throwing up both arms to protect his head and neck, Clint compensated by forcing his body into a roll, the world spinning violently as he flipped over and over and over in an uncoordinated flailing of limbs.
It felt like an age had passed before Clint eventually rolled to a stop facedown on the warm concrete.
*A*V*E*N*G*E*R*S*