-Randi Valiente-
Our tour lasted for a while, and now it's late, around eleven at night, and I'm wide awake. My nightly flights have made me a bit nocturnal, and my wings are itching to catch the air.
I'm not sure if Clint's really asleep and I don't want to be seen by security guards, so I stand on a chair and quietly take off the air vent cover. Then I heave myself up and scoot my way several feet until I see moonlight. Light equals outside, so I work my way out of the vent and take a deep breath of the crisp air.
A few minutes later I'm up in the air, over the deserts and the facility, enjoying the cool air. When I've had my stretch I land back on the roof, next to the vent I exited from. I unveil the file from my jacket and sit on the edge of the roof.
Name: Randi Avery Valiente (Marie Evelyn Valiente)
Sex: Female
DOB: January 7, 1925
Father: Steven Valiente, deceased
Mother: Unknown, thought deceased
Nationality: European American
That's all it says. I stare at the name Steven Valiente for a moment. So, I wasn't alone. I wish I could recall the memories. There isn't even a picture of Steven Valiente, so I'm not even able to get an idea of who he is.
"Hey." I've been so lost in thought I didn't even hear Clint approach. I snap the file shut and realize I have tears in my eyes.
"Hi," I greet, blinking as fast as I can. "Fancy meeting you here." He sits beside me.
"I come out here when I can't sleep, and when I noticed the vent cover missing, so I decided to investigate," the agent tells me. He nods toward the file in my hand.
"Yeah," I say. "Just a bit of late reading." I flip open the file again. "Guess I'm really . . . 86 years old." Clint whistles and raises his eyebrows.
"Woulda guessed otherwise," he says. "How'd you come up with 17 then? And Randi isn't your real name, is it?"
"Quit asking questions," I say sharply, then tell him anyway. "Didn't remember my name when I got here, but I saw it on a waitress's nametag. As for the age, I just took a random number. Then is was 13. Now it's 17. I could be the poster child for anti-aging makeup." We both laugh. "Alright. My turn."
"For what?" Clint asks.
"You asked me questions. It's my turn," I say. "Hmm, what's your job here?"
"Field agent. Well, some consider me a superhero," Clint chuckles. "My alias is Hawkeye. I use a bow and arrow for most of my missions."
"Nice. I couldn't ever use a bow. Too much to carry," I half-smile. "How'd you get sucked into this place?"
"My talent was noticed while I was at the circus – Yes, I grew up at a circus, don't laugh – and they recruited me," Clint tells me.
"A circus? Is that where you learned to shoot? Because I can't picture that real easily," I grin. Clint just smiles and shrugs.
"Last one. Are you and the redhead . . . y'know . . . together?" I ask. Clint sighs.
"Yes and no. Nat and I used to be really close, and then another agent was found alive. James Buchanan Barnes. Rogers' best friend back in World War Two. Steve Rogers, you'll meet him eventually," he adds when he sees my questioning look. "But yeah. She chose the guy over me . . . and so now we barely speak."
I nudge the agent. "You'll find someone eventually, I'm sure of it," I assure him. Then," I'm headed off for another quick flight. See you in the morning?" And with that, I'm up in the air, wings carrying me across the purple sky.
-Clint Barton-
Randi takes off, and I can't help but stare at her wings like before in the cafeteria. They're huge and black, and I can't help but with I had a pair. But I know the technology for that isn't up for grabs just yet.
I let my feet dangle off the building and run my fingers through my hair, reassessing what I said. It was and is completely against my nature, talking so freely with a person I barely know. But something about this girl, well, woman, that feels . . . welcoming.
I shake my head. Come on, Hawk, get yourself together, I think to myself and stand up. It's peaceful, quiet except for the faint growl of the patrol truck, but the sun persists in painting the sky red, so I head back inside.
-Clint Barton-
So, what are our plans for today?" Randi asks, taking a bite of waffle. Luckily for her, I've already planned something.
"We're going to check out your fighting skills," I tell her between bites of egg, over-easy with salt and pepper as always. The chefs have known me for so long, I don't even have to put and order; they already have it for me.
"Cool, like what and how?" my winged companion asks. She rolls her eyes when some of the other agents lean in to each others' ears. Guess her hearing is better than I thought.
"With the other agents. Hand-to-hand combat starts at nine." I was able to find an open-slot; you have to sign up to participate. It's a more popular training exercise around here.
"What should I do about my wings?" Randi's eyebrows crease.
"Just don't fly, or you'll be disqualified," I say. "Here are the rules . . ."
-Clint Barton-
"Randi Valiente!"
"Go up, he's calling you," I push the newbie forward. She winks at me and steps onto the mat. As I expected, everyone gawked at the short, slim girl with wings and a punk faux hawk.
"Jason Blake!" He's a muscular guy without much brain, yet anyone would root for him if this was a real fight. His friends whoop and shout, and someone sets up bets. Most of them are for Blake, as expected. I decide to put my bet.
"Think I'll go against the grain," I say to myself and head over. To them I say, "Twenty bucks says Randi will kick Blake's ass." I smirk when they raise their eyebrows skeptically.
"And, BEGIN!"
The two size up each other, a lion versus a housecat. Jason makes first move.
The trained agent lunges at the recruit, muscles rippling as he punches her in the face. I wince, and the crowd that has gathered "oohs". But then Randi grins. It's a little unsettling, seeing the new bruise on her cheek and a dark smile. I expected the blow to cut her face, but I guess she's made pretty tough.
She snaps open her wings, not to fly, but as an intimidation factor. It works, and for a second Blake just gapes at the sight. In that second Randi launches herself at the agent, ducking kick (which is late) and ends up behind him. She kicks the back of his knee and he leans back, caught off balance. Randi uses this chance to send a flurry of jabs and punches and swipes at pressure points and in a couple the minutes the trained agent is on the ground. I feel something press into my hand. A twenty. Nice.
"What happened?" Coulson says next to me. Huh. Didn't hear or see him approach. His tone suggests he already knows and just wants to hear my verdict.
"Randi took Agent Blake with her bare hands," I say simply. "I told her no weapons; she asked if her hair is a weapon." I grin, and Coulson chuckles.
"It could be," he says, gesturing to her spiky hair. "Agent Valiente." He greets the approaching agent.
"How'd I do?" she asks. The bruise on her cheek is already gone. Jeez. Regeneration as well? What else does she have up her sleeve besides knives?
"Not bad," I tell her. "Ready for round two?"
"What?"
"You keep going till you get beat or surrender," I inform her, again. "Didn't you listen when I told you?"
"No, guess not," she shrugs, shaking her wings out as she heads back to the mat. A feather falls, and I pick it up and twirl it between my fingers.
