It was dark.
So dark. The black night engulfed the world with its cruel silence. The icy wind stirred cracked, brown leaves on the concrete ground. A figure crept up to the door of the square, metal building, using the shadows as cover. He gave the door an experimental push; suspiciously surprised when it opened easily. He cast a quick look over his shoulder, to double check if he was being followed, and slipped into the building. Inside was a single huge room.
A large, grey slab of stone, with some undone leather straps attached to it, was in the centre. It looked roughly like a bed but it held an unexplained, dark aura that made the man shudder. The room was bordered with tables and cabinets, holding various objects such as computers and files and bottles of nasty looking luminous liquid. The man pulled an arrow out of the quiver on his back and notched it in his slender, black bow, resting two fingers on either side of the slim cylinder. He drew back the shining, black string slightly. Even though there was no enemy in sight, he still felt wary towards the question raising building.
He stiffened as quiet, rushed footsteps echoed behind him. Too late he whipped round, lifting his bow and pulling the string all the way back to his cheek. A heavy slam to the forehead knocked him down. Falling backwards to the ground, he loosed an arrow into the shadows before he hit the floor, head smacking on the hard surface. Skinny arms dragged his unconscious body away, causing his black ear piece to drop onto the dusty ground.
"Barton? Do you copy? Agent Barton?"
Clint flickered open his eyes.
He winced as a harsh light shined down from above him. There were leather straps wrapped around his wrists and ankles, tight on his skin. A cannula was stuck in his exposed forearm, slowly seeping a dull red liquid into his body. He tensed, straining on the leather straps as he attempted to break free. He glanced around the room. He was lying on the stone slab, facing the large metal door. Five or six scientists and a few men in threatening uniforms, probably some sorts of agents, surrounded the room, the scientists experimenting with medicine or researching something on computers, the agents standing arms folded, watching them closely.
Clint struggled on the stone, bunching the muscles in his arms and legs until he began to tremble with the effort. One of the men yelled something in a foreign language that Clint did not understand and rushed to the slab. He leant over Clint, pulling out a gun, shouting something which was definitely a threat. Clint head butted him in the face, causing dark, blood to spurt from the agent's nose. A clenched fist met Clint's cheek and he grunted in pain as the man pummelled him over and over again. A grey haired scientist took the man by his shoulder, forcing him away. He whispered something urgently in a heavy accent. Scarlet dripped into Clint's eyes, flowing from a fresh cut above his right eye. His face was bruised and bloody from the uniformed man's continuous beatings; he spat out some blood from his mouth, glaring defiantly up at the agent. Two scientists came up to him and began to fumble about with the cannula. They leapt back on Clint's every move or noise as if they were scared he would hurt them. The scientists injected another red liquid, this time glowing like the brightest moon, into the cannula on his right forearm. It rushed through his blood, flowing like a raging river. Clint opened his mouth as he felt his throat close up, gasping for breath as the scientists shouted to one another, panicking. He writhed about on the stone slab, eyes shut tightly, his thrashing was limited by the straps and he strained against them until he was sure they would snap or his wrists would break. His eyes shot open, flashing red.
'CRACK'
The room exploded in red mist. The scientists and agents were thrown against the wall, falling to the floor and not getting up. Clint rolled off the side of the stone slab, landing on his hands and knees, coughing and panting heavily. He scrambled up, leaning on the stone which came up to his hips, picking the cannula out of his arm like a thorn.
"Well that was spectacular."
Clint spun round to face the back of the room and his breath caught in his throat. Standing on the other side of the stone slab was Bucky Barnes.
Clint was so shocked that all he could do for a moment was stare stupidly. Bucky? It's Bucky! He let the realisation sink in. The Avengers had been trying to find him since they had dealt with Ultron. Mission after mission they had searched for him; often running into trouble which had nothing to do with the winter soldier. Bucky glared at him coldly, his scraggy brown hair drifting across his menacing eyes. He flexed his metal arm, not taking his eyes off the archer. In a flash he had vaulted over the stone, gripping his silver hand round Clint's neck. Clint, mouth gaping, vainly tried to force him off, grabbing Bucky's wrist with his hands. The winter soldier seemed not to notice his struggles and easily lifted Clint off the ground by the neck. Clint was finding it harder and harder to breathe, dizzy and lightheaded, aiming a few kicks at Bucky with his dangling legs. He attempted to gulp in another mouthful of the cold crisp air but the metal hand had blocked his windpipe. His chest heaved as he fought to lift the pressure on his throat. He aimed a last flailing arm at Bucky before he felt his heart stop beating, vision clouding with darkness and his head rolled back, exposing his crushed neck to the night.
