This chapter introduces us to our first more or less major villain, the Taskmaster. He was suggested by Kagirinai. Thanks a lot for that!
2. Assassin
"I can't believe you haven't told me about Mother Nature before!"
Jamie Bennett glared at Jack almost accusingly, but the effect was kind of negated by the excited gleam in the boy's brown eyes.
"Yeah, well, I honestly don't know that much about her," Jack admitted, "She usually doesn't do much so..."
"But you know I want to know all about the mythical stuff!"
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Jack sat down on the back of the park bench Jamie was sitting on and gave the boy a mischievous smile, "Is that enough? Or is this a drama that's going to ruin our friendship forever?"
Jamie's young face spread into a grin.
"Well no, duh. Just as long as you remember to tell me next time you guys do something exciting."
"It's not very exciting, really. We haven't even found her. Hey, are those muffins made by your mom?"
Jack pointed at the plastic box that Jamie had brought with him and that housed two golden brown muffins.
"Yeah. Want one? Careful, they have all sorts of pumpkin seeds and stuff in them. Mom's having this health obsession time right now. They should still be pretty good, though."
Jack grabbed a muffin from the box. It was almost fresh from the oven and still warm. For about three seconds until his touch caused it to frost over, anyway. Jack took a bite before it froze all the way through. The centre was warm, and the outside was pleasantly cold. Perfect. Taking a break in Burgess had been a great idea.
"So what are you going to do now?" Jamie asked, "About Mother Nature, I mean."
Jack shrugged.
"Talk to her, as soon as we find her. She usually doesn't want anyone to butt into her business, but she'll probably talk to Sandy. Sandy and her go way back. I'm mostly helping him to cover more ground."
"So Mother Nature doesn't like you? Jamie guessed.
Jack laughed a bit nervously.
"I tried to pull a prank on her once. Not my brightest moment. She has real nasty temper. I think it was the first time I was ever struck by lightning. After that we've just... done our own jobs and left each other alone. It has worked out so far."
"Weird," Jamie mumbled, turning a muffin in his hands, "I'd have thought she was like your boss or something."
"Boss?" Jack suddenly jumped into a standing position, swinging his crooked shepherd's staff onto his shoulders and doing his best to look impressive and offended at the same time. It was easier said than done when one was stuck looking like a scrawny teenager, "You think I, Jackson Overland Frost, would listen to some lady just because she has weather powers that aren't limited to just one season? No. She does what she wants, I do what I want. She can have her storms and whatnot, but winters, blizzards... they are my thing. Mostly."
He was fairly proud of his little speech. Jamie was still grinning.
"Okay, I get it. Speaking of blizzards, when are we going to get a snow day?"
"Not for a while, kiddo. It's October so I'm just starting to cool this place down. You know that."
Jamie sighed.
"Yeah... I just wish winter came sooner so you'd hang out with us more."
Jack knew Jamie wasn't trying to guilt trip him, but he felt guilty nonetheless. He knew he had been busy elsewhere, making new believers, doing his job... and now he had to track down Mother Nature as well. It was always difficult being apart from his believers. Especially the Burgess kids who had been the first ones. He knew he shouldn't pick favourites too much, but every Guardian knew that first believers were special. And Jamie especially was such a great kid. Like a little brother. Who was getting less and less little all the time. Jack forced those thoughts out of his head. Now was not the time to worry about loss. Jamie was still in elementary school. The time when he became an adult was somewhere far away in the future. He smiled at Jamie again and spun his staff around a couple of times to coax the first snowflakes of that year's winter in Burgess to fall lazily into the park. Jamie caught one of them into his hand and laughed.
Clint Barton went through the last few days in his head while he got ready for his assignment. Aside from the Mother Nature -news, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Well, nothing out of the ordinary by their standards. But then again, they had fought aliens alongside a green giant and a Norse God, so they probably weren't the best people to determine what normal was. Clint carefully picked out some of his trick arrowheads and loaded them into his quiver. His assignment was a routine one for him. Basic reconnaissance in an area where they had picked up signs of suspicious technology and possible signs of illicit military operations. It wasn't anything major. In fact, Clint had volunteered mostly because he wanted something to do. It had been quiet lately, and besides being an agent, there wasn't a whole lot else in Clint's life, to be honest. He had been allowed to go, but with warnings that this might be a waste of his skills. Which it probably was. Still, something was bothering Clint about this, making his instincts ring alarm bells. He didn't really know why. Maybe he should just let it go for the moment and focus on the mission. He grabbed his collapsible bow and headed out.
He was driven to a forested location near the border between USA and Canada. It wasn't tactically a very good hiding place for a possible terrorist group. A bit too close to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own operation bases. Not that outsiders could find that out easily. Clint stepped out of the car when it stopped long before they reached their destination and continued on foot. The woods were decidedly not quiet. Nature never really was. Clint kept his eyes and ears sharp and tried to discern possible out-of-place sounds from the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves. He adjusted the small microphone he had in the collar of his dark-coloured combat vest. Deputy director Hill was on the other end of the radio all the time, just like she was on the other end of several other radios. Hill was probably pulling quadruple duty as mission control in their most covert operations. Clint muttered a few words into the mike to indicate he was in the destination and en route to a better vantage point. He trekked through the forest without using any existing paths and quickly arrived to the glen they had flagged as suspicious. He used the trees and undergrowth as cover and found his vantage point on a hill with a good view to the place.
A small structure, a bunker made mostly of metal and wood, was very well hidden among the trees, but Clint's sharp eyes, aided by binoculars, could pick it out no problem.
"Okay, I see it," he said in a barely audible voice, "Well hidden, no activity outside yet. I can see some signs of that technology our satellites picked up."
"Can you get closer?" Hill's radio-distorted question echoed into Clint's earpiece.
"Of course."
Clint crept towards the building, as alert as he possibly could. If there was anyone in there, they hadn't seemed to have noticed that an agent was so close to their base, but it never hurt to be cautious. Clint froze in place when someone dressed in camouflage gear stepped out from behind the building's corner.
"One soldier outside," Clint said, "Basic camouflage gear, carries a pistol, no other visible weapons. Wait..."
He zoomed in on the gun at the man's waist. It wasn't anything available in regular gun shops. In fact, it looked suspiciously like...
"Hang on, I'm sending you visual of the gun."
He practically heard Hill's concentrated stare when he sent the images through.
"That looks like one of our R'n'D projects," Hill stated after an audible silence.
"That's what I thought too. Is this a really weird coincidence or do we have a leak somewhere?"
"Neither option is likely. Something isn't right. We need more information."
"This could become much more than a routine operation."
"Then it's good we sent you, Hawkeye."
Clint nodded quietly, even though he knew Hill couldn't see it. This was... interesting. Clint couldn't say he was told about all of S.H.I.E.L.D's more experimental projects, but even he had seen some of the prototypes of the weapons one of this unknown soldier seemed to be carrying. It had been one of the models they had designed with the infinite power source of the ancient Tesseract in mind, and it had been meant to fire energy slugs that would both shock and burn the target. These had to be modified versions, though. The Tesseract wasn't on Earth any longer. And how had these people got wind of the weapons in the first place? It was troubling to say the least. Hill was right: they needed more information. They had to set up surveillance, figure out what was going on, and...
Clint's instincts suddenly alerted him that something was wrong. He automatically drew his bow and crouched even lower in his hiding spot.
"Is something wrong?"
"Not yet," Clint muttered, "But might be soon. I'm going radio silent."
He then switched off his link to mission control and focused fully on his surroundings. At first, he couldn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary – save for the mysterious bunker about a hundred feet to his left – but he had long ago learned to at least check his surroundings carefully whenever his instincts went on high alert. He watched and listened, and eventually the normal sounds of nature gave way to something that didn't belong there. Just for a second, but that second was enough. Someone was approaching him. Someone fast and stealthy, but not good enough to fool him. Clint's fingers brushed one of his arrows, and he waited for a while longer before drawing it. The arrowhead was basically a capsule that contained tear gas. It wasn't exactly harmful, but it would incapacitate almost anyone effectively for some time. Unless someone had decided to go for a stroll in the forest wearing a gas mask. Unlikely, but hey, one could never know.
Clint moved from his spot when he heard a crunch of leaves that could have been innocent, but wasn't. He turned silently and aimed his bow to the trees at his right. Nothing. An amateur might have relaxed at that. If Clint had been an amateur, he might have died three seconds later when a bullet from a silenced handgun shot from the bushes. Clint moved so that the projectile only grazed his side. The bulletproof vest he was wearing would need to be replaced, but that was way better than having his head splattered all over the undergrowth. Clint let his dodge continue into a controlled fall and he was back on his feet when someone fast and strong leaped out of the bushes. Clint aimed his bow, leading the quick target and let the tear gas fly. It struck the attacker in the shoulder with enough force to stop their charge. The tear gas was released and Clint quickly stepped back to not get caught in it. That was when the attacker stopped for long enough for Clint to notice two things. One: the attacker was clearly an athletic man wearing some sort of combat armour that didn't fit into the dress code of anyone except superheroes – or supervillains. Two: said outfit came with a face-concealing mask that seemed to do a good job at keeping the tear gas out. Figures. Time for some a bit more offensive arrows, then.
Clint took even more distance and prompted his quiver to select a regular, sharp arrowhead. Deadly if aimed right, crippling if aimed right in a slightly different way. He would go with crippling. Clint set the arrow on the bowstring and took aim when his opponent was still staggered from the blow to the shoulder. He targeted the man's weapon arm again. He let go. The masked man saw the arrow, but he shouldn't have enough time to dodge. He didn't. But he did have time to catch it. Hawkeye blinked. It was becoming very obvious that his opponent wasn't just a regular guy in a silly suit. The man flung the arrow away and raised his gun. For a second the waning sunlight reflected on the man's metallic mask and made it look more menacing than it really was. Considering it was designed to look like a skull, the effect was admittedly rather intimidating. Clint slipped behind a tree for cover and went through tactics in his head as quickly as his quiver was going through arrowheads in search of the right one. Bullets cracked the bark near Clint's head and Clint spun from one cover to the next, shooting an arrow at the man on the way. It was a quick shot, hopefully too quick for the man to react in any way this time.
The arrow glanced off the man's shoulder guard. Clint switched covers again and opened his radio link back to Hill.
"Problems," he grunted.
"What is it, Hawkeye?"
"I was attacked."
"What?" Hill sounded disbelieving.
"I know, I know," Clint crouched low to avoid another bullet, "I'm taking him down and leaving. Or should I get more intel?"
"Is he from the bunker?"
"I don't know. I'll call when the situation has calmed down a bit."
The man zigzagged towards Clint, clearly trying to make Clint's aiming difficult. Clint fired anyway, keeping his hands steady and his head clear. He had faced Norse gods, aliens, and literal nightmares, so a masked commando wasn't going to throw him off-guard. The next arrow hit the man in the right arm, and the man went down with a muffled shout. Clint folded his bow but didn't put it away and sprinted from his cover. When the attacker went down to his knees, Clint was already close enough to drop the man all the way to the ground with a well-placed kick. He caught the man's armoured, muscular arm and twisted it. He didn't quite get it into a proper hold before the man broke loose, freeing his arm and aiming a very well practised palm strike at Clint's face. Clint threw his arm up to prevent his nose from meeting his brain and was sent tumbling onto his back from the force of the blow. The fallen autumn leaves crunched under him when he got back up and saw the man running away with speed that could easily have earned him a medal in the Olympics. He left behind a trail of blood that Clint could easily follow until it suddenly ended. The attacker had probably managed to patch himself up on the go. Clint took a deep breath and stopped to listen again. Soft rustles and crunches were steadily getting away. Just when Clint was about to go into hunting mode, he heard commotion near the base. People were gathering outside. Someone was pulling out a pair of binoculars. Hawkeye flattened himself against he ground and sighed.
"He's getting away, but the people in the bunker are starting to get suspicious. If I don't leave now, I'll risk the entire mission."
He knew the mission hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. Not even close. Clint couldn't say he liked it. He should have been a professional. More prepared for situations like this.
"Get out of there before they start coming out in force," Hill said, "Let's hope this doesn't scare them away yet. We'll continue watching with just the satellites for now."
Hawkeye nodded needlessly again and slipped away unnoticed by the searching soldiers. Defeated, he started his trek back. He was told he would be picked up half a mile from his current location. It was a short walk, but it gave him some time to think. The attacker had almost come out of nowhere. He couldn't remember them ever having any talk of a masked fighter like that. And how had he even found Clint here in the wilderness? Was he working with the people in the bunker? They needed to know more. The phrase of the day, it seemed. So much for routine missions. Clint had a feeling Fury wouldn't be too pleased of yet another addition to the list of things they needed to worry about.
They said that the Boogeyman lived under the bed. And they were right, in a way. It was mostly his own little joke, putting an old bed on top of the main entrance to his domain. In reality, Pitch Black, the Boogeyman, lived deep underground. He had shaped his realm during his centuries of hiding and occasional larger scale attack. He had got it right ages ago, after arduously crafting the shifting, Escher style corridors and decorated them with nightmares and darkness. That sounded more poetic if one didn't know it was literally what most of his décor consisted of. Usually his lair was alive with occasional minions, his Fearlings made of fear and shadow moving about in search of dreams to devour. Now it was much quieter, the Fearlings were sluggish, and Pitch's beloved army of Nightmare horses had been reduced to one.
Pitch Black was not happy. He sat in a shadow in his lair, letting the darkness and solitude give him strength. It didn't make him feel much better, though. He was hungry. The dreams he had managed to turn into nightmares, the fear he had scraped together in the last few months had barely made him strong enough to stay in solid form. Ever since the Guardians and the Avengers had defeated him in New York, the damned Guardians had been vigilant to the point of obsession. Pitch had been sneaking through the shadows, avoiding the Sandman's deadly light and sickeningly happy dreamsand, cursing his luck. Sure, he had faced hard times before, but the last time he had been defeated this badly twice in quick succession had been centuries ago. It hurt his pride. And just plain hurt.
His only remaining Nightmare trotted over to him, whinnying affectionately. Pitch patted her shadowy flank, noting with distaste that his fingertips still looked a bit intangible. He sighed. A few of his Fearlings scattered into the looping corridors of his home, almost as if they had something important to do. The truth was that Pitch wasn't really planning anything that would require any work from his minions at the moment. He was too tired, too starving for anything grander than just a few amateur dream capers. The Fearlings soon returned, nervously fluttering about and whispering something about an intruder. Pitch was up in a second and forced himself to forget about self-pity for the moment. Had someone sneaked in? Without him noticing? He really was losing his touch. He concentrated, letting his senses spread outwards through the shadows, and found a familiar presence. Familiar, and very unexpected.
"You?" he asked hoarsely when she stepped into his view, partly out of exhaustion, partly because of the sorrow welling up in him.
His guest didn't waste time for greetings.
"The earth is concerned," she said instead, "And I know someone is hiding from me. From everyone, I'd think."
"From you?" Pitch asked, "There's someone even you can't find?"
Her eyes were steely. They hurt him.
"They must be powerful and clever to do that indeed. But someone who hides is always afraid. If nothing else then of discovery."
"So you came to ask my help?" Pitch might have laughed if it had been anyone else he was talking to, "I'm honoured."
"And I'm desperate," she said icily, and the temperature in Pitch's lair dropped further, "I have searched everywhere, but I haven't found them. I know you have been sneaking about. And I see an assassin preying on the ones who helped the Guardians defeat you in New York. Is there anything you know about this?"
"I don't have anything to do with assassins," Pitch said, almost offended, "But I know of him. He has amusing fears. I might know who he works for too. And that guy keeps some very interesting company."
"So who hired him? And what kind of company does this man keep?"
He could sense she was growing impatient. He probably shouldn't push his luck just to keep her in his company a while longer, even though he wanted nothing more than to sit her down and ask her how she was and if time had treated her well. So he told her what he knew. She hummed thoughtfully and then huffed in irritation.
"Of course! Those damned Asgardians..."
"What are you going to do about it?"
She didn't answer. Instead she stormed off as if staying in Pitch's lair a second longer made her want to destroy something. Which was probably exactly how she felt. Pitch unclenched his semi-tangible fists and let out a long, unhappy sigh. Sometimes he didn't even know why he cared. Then he remembered again, if remembering was what the foggy echoes from so long ago could be called.
It didn't take long for them to dig out information on Barton's attacker. Not that it made Fury much happier. Things just didn't seem to go their way. Although, they rarely did. That was why they existed. To keep people safe when things went to hell. They had all accepted it when they had signed up.
Barton hadn't been seriously injured during the mission, and he had even managed to get a few pictures of the attacker. The armour and the mask were very distinct, and they had been recognized after some searching.
"An assassin, known as the Taskmaster," Hill read out loud from the screen where the masked man's profile had been opened, "Real identity unknown. Nothing major on his record so far. Minor hits, never anything big enough to warrant our attention more than this one file."
"Until now."
"Until now," Hill admitted.
Fury ran a hand over his scalp.
"An assassin, attacking near people who were carrying weaponry possibly stolen from us. Targeting an Avenger. I think we just got a new priority."
"Do you think the Taskmaster attacked Hawkeye to defend the base?" Hill wondered, "Or was Clint singled out because he was an Avenger? We have had other agents near the base, and they have never been attacked."
Fury's brow creased. Hill had a point.
"We need more intel," he said finally, "For now, we just go with what we have and we'll be even more on our guard from now on."
He turned to leave the office.
"Track their movements as far as you can," he added when he reached the doorway, "I want that base watched twenty-four/seven. Get someone to check if there are leaks in our system, or if something has been broken into. I also want more info on Taskmaster. And if he turns up again I want Romanoff after him."
"Will be done," Hill said, "Should we inform the rest of the Avengers about the Taskmaster just in case?"
"Yes. Do that as well."
"I will."
Author's Note: Wow, the news of this sequel were super well received. Now I'm feeling the pressure especially since I have no idea what I'm doing. Oh, well. I have villains now, thanks to you guys because you are awesome! And Taskmaster won't be the only villain in this. I'd appreciate it if you kept any kind of feedback coming because that would really help me get better. Someone tell me if my depiction of Taskmaster was awfully off (although he didn't do much yet so...)! Or not.
See you later. Sometime. When I can sort out this fic further.