Dozen, Chapter 1
This might be AU in the film sense, it definitely is in the comic world. It's pre-Avengers by about ten or fifteen years and is Clint and Natasha-centric. We might see Coulson and Fury.
I've done loads of research here, with Russian, the traditional names, country lifestyle, etc. If you see any mistakes please, please, please let me know!
Loads of thanks to ladygris, who kindly offered to beta this beastie. She's a gem.
-XXX-
A plain of pure white is spread out before him, punctured only by an occasional sheet of ivory flakes. There are a few outcroppings of green-grey stones, perhaps a lonely, thin pine, or bush with twiggy limbs. The sky is slate. Hard and grey and the colour of iron. It presses down upon the landscape.
All in all, the place could be summed up in only a few words: barren, forsaken, freezing. Clint could think of two himself – "ass-cold."
Though he is bundled in layers upon layers, the chill has sunken into his very bones. Flakes have accumulated on his eyebrows and the creases of his puffy black coat. Clint Barton is stiff and cold and he doesn't even know how he's moving his limbs, but his introspection has never been greater.
Three days after the mission, and he cannot get the image out of his mind. The sight of moving, burning bodies, the scent of charred flesh, the bitter taste of smoke in the air…Clint will be lucky if he ever forgets the sight. Or the sounds. The voices.
He's typically not so affected. But this time 'round there were children involved – black-market adoptions were a side deal of this Cabal – and he hadn't quite managed to get everyone out. And kids…kids are off-limits.
Clint closes his eyes. Yes. Kids are his limit. Any fiend willing to use them as a shield has a special place in hell waiting for him.
If not for the kids, he might've made his transport. The opportunity lost, Clint had been forced to find his own way out. "His own way" turned out to be a truck of sheep headed east – except it wasn't east, and it wasn't a reliable truck. They drove two days and three nights before the thing broke down. He'd ended up abandoned on the wintery wasteland. Luckily his pack was enough to support him for . two to three days.
Ever since he'd been dumped, he'd been walkingThough he doesn't quite know where, exactly, he is, Clint knows the nearest SHIELD station is toward the east. Near Moscow. But he's nowhere near the east. Seeing as he'd slept through a great deal of the ride, he hadn't noticed their direction. Which was –
"Stupid."
Oh, Coulson was going to have a field day. Fury would tear into him, too, without a doubt.
The communications are out, too, damaged by the cold, being generally bashed around, and blood. Barton winces with memory. The scrapes on his elbows still hurt, and the gash that extends to his hairline doesn't feel much better. His busted nose and bruised eyes probably look worse than they feel. That gives him a little cheer. His ears still ring, though, and if that doesn't end soon he's not certain how long it will last.
Clint has a vague hope that his earpiece might function after the blood dries out, and perhaps if he gets out of the cold. But that's uncertain, and it isn't entirely likely that he will be getting away from this blasted weather anytime soon. Agent Barton has learned not to bank on "maybes." It's something that could get you killed. And Clint's entire business revolves around not getting himself killed.
Just others.
Possibly the worst part of the whole situation was his distinct lack of weapondry. He'd been forced to dump his kit – bow, quiver, and all – into a nearby stream before leaving the factory compound for his transport—which, of course, he missed. Without his talents being utilized, Clint felt as though he had lost a limb. He could not function to full capacity without his bow. Not even close.
So, he's been wandering about this icy desert for a few days, freezing his toes and other valuable limbs off slowly. At night, he'll find the nearest pile of rocks to curl behind and perhaps snap a few limbs off of a nearby pine for something of a fire. Barton imagines his stale MRE crackers and beef stew is hot, or better yet, legitimate food. Something warm. And good.
"So, not SHIELD, then," he thinks wryly. "Nothing from the Helicarrier…I'll be glad when I'm back in the city."
The New York SHIELD HQ is the closet thing he'll ever get to "home" in his vocabulary. Clint has an apartment, in Brooklyn, small and high above the streets. His "nest." He rarely misses it, as he's gone more often than not, and it's more of a hotel suite than a proper home. But today….
His thoughts are sharply broken by the sight of smoke on the horizon. Clint blinks, once, twice. Smoke. Smoke means fire, fire means…means…people. Civilization.
…And probably some decent food.
Clint surges forward. He stumbles through the snow, unsteady. Where there are people there are transports. Transports that could lead him to Moscow. To SHIELD.
"Only a little longer now."
-XXX-
She can remember a life from before the Red Room. It isn't exactly clear, rather, vague points in time, flares of memory. She can remember her parents Or, at the very least, people who might've been her parents. Tall, smelling warm, soft voices and blurred she can recall dancing. Natasha can still feel her limbs stretch, her muscles tight in a pose. There is the scratch of a stiff tutu's skirt against her arms. The slight ache of her pointe shoes, tightly laced against her calves. Yes, she can remember the lines and the forms and the positions. She remembers grey skies and leaf-scattered streets before a small brick house. A black dog. Red curtains. Faded grey-white sheets. Warm, spicy black bread. A pair of pinchy brown shoes. But not much else.
At some point in her life, there was a beginning. A start to the Red Room, the Soviets, and all that came with the pair. She's not sure how she, Natasha, was selected for the task of…management. Before the Red Room, she was nothing special. They made her special. Gifted.
Gifted with blood.
And then, sometime long after the beginning, there was an after. A point beyond St. Petersburg, beyond a dormitory, beyond her gun. Now.
An after. An after to her most bloody beginnings.
-XXX-
Reposted Nov. 10th, 2012, thanks to ladygris.
It'll be a while before we see them together. Gotta set things up, you know….
Reviews would be lovely!