Author's Note
This is just something I thought of around 1 AM last night. I think it turned out pretty well. Not sure if this is a one-shot or if I will continue it. Anyway, I don't own these characters. Please enjoy, and feel free to review!
Congratulations, Mr. Barton. You now have no control over your actions. Soon, your thoughts will be mine as well.
Clint Barton falls to his knees. There is someone inside his head, breaking every wall he has worked so hard to put up. It sort of feels like a headache, but deeper. The pain shoots through his skull in waves, his hands instinctively going to his head. His fingers tense up and tighten around his hair. Clint's face takes on a pained expression; his eyelids press shut tightly, his jaw clenches.
It hurts, does it not? Yet it is not the worst pain you will feel. The rest comes later. Look at you, though. So confused, so vulnerable. This is your worst nightmare.
Who are you? What the hell is this?
Barton is losing control, just like the voice told him. His limbs seem to lock up and become weighted in their positions. Panic sets in no matter how hard he tries to keep it out. What good will it to do become panicked if he cannot move? He tries to push away the foreign voice, to break free of his invisible tethers. It's impossible.
Now it is time that I take over for you, Barton. You will be better off with me in charge anyway, I believe. You have potential, it's true, but what shall I make of it?
What are you talking about? Get out of my head, you bastard.
His blood seems to freeze in his veins, halting in its journey to and from his heart. Pain pricks through his arms and legs while his head throbs. His vision blurs and no matter how many times he blinks it doesn't straighten out.
I don't understand. This doesn't make any sense. How am I losing control of my own body?
You are correct- you don't understand. Perhaps you never will. Nonetheless, it is time to let go, dear Barton.
Clint makes one last attempt to force the voice out and reclaim his body. Nothing but pain. Now he feels as if his thoughts are becoming clouded. He is unable to think straight, his thoughts clumping together.
Am I dying? Are you killing me, is that what this is? I wonder if Nat made it out. Whoever you are, if you are making her go through this too, I swear I-
He collapses onto the floor, unconscious.
How amusing. You don't know pain. I, however, do. It is frightening to lose control, isn't it? To be suffering so, but have no choice but to endure it. I know what it is like to be unmade, and now you do too.
Clint's eyes shoot open, the irises an unnatural icy blue. He stands and straightens himself, then looks around. A figure emerges from the shadows, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"How do you feel, Barton?" asks the man before him, smirking. Clint flexes his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists. He smiles.
"Better than ever, boss."