…
Natasha woke up slowly, letting soreness seep into her bones instead of allowing the pain to hit her all at once. She blinked the grit out of her eyes as more dust trickled down from the ceiling of her cell. The hand length window in the door only let in enough light to define the walls, though there wasn't much to define. All in all, the space was only the size of a queen-sized bed, and if she stretched her arms up Natasha's fingertips could barely brush the ceiling. Everything, including the door, was solid concrete and even when she was taken from her prison she felt the weight of several meters of earth hanging over her head.
At first it was bearable. The hunger hadn't set in yet, and they tended to leave her to herself. Then they started asking questions, and when she didn't provide them with the information they sought they began the drugs. As the days ticked away she began to feel more or less like a canary in a mine. They were just waiting to see if she would die.
What little information she had she committed to memory, from their location (New York) to their plans for her. As far as she could tell, they planned to use her as a bargaining chip since their interrogations always stopped short of mutilating damage. But why her? She had to ask herself. Faced with the choice between saving her and surrendering to the terrorists, she had no doubt that SHIELD would simply hand over her resume. There had to be something she wasn't seeing.
The door swung open and hit the wall with a bang, causing her to flinch. Dim light spilled into the cell, silhouetting three very large men. Two of them stood at the door, fingering the triggers of their guns.
The man that Natasha had deemed to be the boss stepped closer, his boots making an ominous clump on the cement floor.
"Good morning Natasha," he greeted in a singsong voice. He wore a turban that masked all his features except for his glittery black eyes. Despite the cliche "terrorist" outfit, his accent was completely American.
"Do you know what day it is?" he asked. Natasha kept silent, but her heart sank. "Another five days," he elaborated gleefully. He gripped her wrist- the one that was not chained to the wall- and turned her arm so that the six shallow cuts were facing up. She struggled weakly and only on principle, knowing he would hurt her either way. Pulling her own hunting knife from his belt, he traced the exposed skin before etching a new tally mark. It felt like a paper cut in comparison to all her other hurts.
Slipping the knife back, the boss held his hand out to one of the guards, who drew a syringe filled with a strange purple liquid.
"Day thirty five" the boss deadpanned before plunging the needle into her arm
…
The Stark Tower used to remind Clint of a power plant: painfully obvious, and no one quite knew exactly what it was used for. Now that it belonged to the Avengers, he had come to think of it as home. It was only after Natasha had been taken that he realized it hadn't been the tower.
After a long and silent elevator ride, Clint raised his hand to knock on the penthouse door. The door swung open immediately, held open by Pepper Potts.
"Agent Barton," she smiled. "Please, come in." she stepped aside to let him enter, closing the door softly behind him.
"Tony!" she called as she led Clint into the sitting room. Clint tried not to look around too much; he was staying at a hotel for a reason.
"Oh, hey, Hawkeye!" Tony greeted as he waltzed into the room, making a beeline toward the massive bank of computers. "Come and take a look at this." Clint followed, looking over his shoulder at what appeared to be a map of underground New York City.
"A few weeks back we noticed that a bunch of firearms were disappearing. I planted a few trackers and look where they turned up."
A knot of tunnels lit up and flashed red. Clint reached behind him as if to grab an arrow, even though he didn't have his quiver.
"Let's go," he said, and started to turn before Tony caught his arm.
"You know I'm a big fan of the no-plan plan, but have you even stopped to think about this?"
"Have I thought about how it's all my fault Tasha is captive? That she might even be dead? Yes, Stark. I have thought about it."
Tony glanced over to where Pepper was making lunch. "I'm sorry Hawkeye. It's a suicide mission"
"I know." He took a stack of files related to the terrorist group and left without another word.
…