CHAPTER 4
They come for Clint. Same thing as when they were deposited in the cell. Separate walls, gun point from a safe distance, and 'don't move'. And again, it gives Clint zero opportunity to act without Natasha paying the ultimate price. So he keeps on watching, memorizing, and he does nothing at all to make them nervous. It's the same three guards, too. Clint takes to calling them Huey, Dewey and Screwy in his head. They tie him up again. Shackle his feet. At least he's spared the bag. Small favors, right?
He's walked down the hallway to the other end and into another room that looks exactly like the one he just left. Same concrete walls and floors, same metal door. Only difference is that there's a chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and two women are huddled against the wall in front of it. The hunched shoulders, the fear that leaks from both of them tells him they're not part of the house crew. They're handcuffed to sturdy metal rings in the wall. Neither of them very young, neither of them very old. Clint thinks they might have been in here for a while. The room smells like it, anyway.
He's getting a very bad feeling about this.
His bound hands are forced over the back of the chair and a solid looking carabiner clips around his brand new zip ties, attaching them to a metal wire loop whose other end is secured to a chain anchor in the floor. The anchor is massive and looks like it was installed when the concrete floor was poured. The shackles around his ankles are secured the same way.
The ducklings leave and another man steps into the room, closing the heavy door behind him. The man is in his fifties, graying. 5'10, medium build. Light eyes. Tanned. No distinguishing scars or marks. Clint memorizes everything about him. He doesn't look all that much like a physical threat, but taking things at face value is a shortcut to pain in their line of business, so Clint doesn't. But one thing he can be sure of is that this guy is not one of the footmen. If the clothes hadn't told him that, the body language certainly would have. He gives orders, he doesn't take them.
"Welcome to my humble abode," the newcomer says with a smile. "Do you know why you're here?" He comes to stand in front of Clint.
"To brighten your day with my sparkling personality?"
The man laughs. "Some sparkling would actually be very nice. This place is depressing."
"You're telling me," Clint mutters.
"You must be thirsty." Without waiting for an answer, the man walks to the door, raps on it and speaks quietly to someone outside. A few seconds later, he's got a water bottle in his hands.
Now that Clint's attention has been pointed towards water, he realizes he really is thirsty. Parched. Dehydrated from the drugs he was given, he assumes, because he hasn't been without water anywhere near long enough to be this thirsty. The man holds holds the bottle out and gives it a tiny little shake, as if Clint's attention wasn't on it already.
It's the classic rock and hard place. Without water he will suffer rapid physical deterioration. If he drinks it he risks it being spiked with Amobarbital or any number of psycotropics that will send his inhibitions on vacation. Haloperidol is a different kind of beast, popular in certain parts of the world. It's a GRU favorite, and it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin in the worst way. He's tried that one during training and he never, ever, wants to experience it again.
Clint won't waste energy trying to hide the fact that he is thirsty, very thirsty, and he makes his decision. He'll take the chance. He needs the water, needs to be strong enough to get out of here when the opportunity presents itself. And he's pretty sure he can withstand at least some of the stuff they might throw at him.
The man unscrews the cap and takes a step forward when Clint nods. Then stops. "You're going to behave, aren't you?"
"Yes."
The water is cool and wonderful against Clint's lips and down his throat. He downs almost half the bottle before it's taken away.
The man screws the cap back on. "Okay. Shall we begin? You can call me Blacker, by the way. What's your name?"
Clint looks at him passively.
Blacker walks to the door and sets the water bottle down on the floor next to it. He walks back, unhurried. "That's not such a terribly difficult question, is it?"
Clint looks around. "You guys really need to get a new interior designer," he says .
"It's not pretty, but it's functional. Your name, please."
"Tinkerbell," Clint says.
Blacker looks unimpressed.
"Wendy?"
Something in Blacker's stance changes and Clint thinks that this is when the beating will start.
But Blacker turns and walks to one of the women, unlocks her cuff and grabs her by the hair. There's a Sig in his hand now (P229, Clint notes, and where the hell did it come from?) and he drags the woman with one hand to stand in front of Clint, close enough that he would be able to touch her if his hands were free. She wails and digs at Blacker's fingers, trying to loosen his grip of her hair.
"This is Elena. She is very pleased to meet you." Blacker lets go of the woman's hair and grabs her elbow, holds her at arm's length in a hard grip. The Sig is held casually by his side, and the woman squeezes her eyes shut, tight enough that the skin around them is white.
Clint feels sick.
"Let's try this again. What's your name?"
"Okay, okay. Don't hurt her." Clint licks his lips. "Carter." He goes for one of his old aliases. "My name is John Car—"
His eardrums just about ruptures and a spray of high-velocity wetness hits the wall. The woman crumples, boneless, hitting the floor with a thud that is all too familiar to him. His mind goes blank for just a split-second.
Fuck.
That's all he can think when it comes back online again. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Over and over and over again.
Blacker says nothing. He stalks towards the wall and before he even reaches the other woman, she's wailing, shrinking back from him as far as her cuffs will allow. She starts screaming, but Clint can't understand the language. The meaning, however, is crystal clear. She's pleading with Blacker. Pleading with Clint, and he's tearing at the restraints behind his back, at his feet, trying to find some leverage that will let him get out of the chair.
Blacker turns and watches him struggle, dispassionately, until Clint has worn himself out. It's useless. Clint's panting, his back a solid ball of pain, warm wetness is running down his fingers and he's pretty sure the ties have drawn blood. And he's not a fraction of an inch closer to freedom. By the wall, the woman is in full panic. Blacker steps back for a moment, like he's surprised at the vehemence, before he takes the Sig and punches her once in the side of her head. No frills, just a solid blow to the temple. Her knees buckle and Blacker has no problem getting her cuffs off and dragging her in front of Clint. She doesn't get to her feet, just hangs where Blacker's holding her up on her knees. She's crying now.
Clint thinks he hears something that sounds like 'mama'.
Jesus Christ.
"Don't," he pants.
"Anything you want to tell me?"
Clint forces himself to look back at Blacker, sees him lift the Sig again when Clint doesn't speak immediately. The woman squeals brokenly and holds her hands up in front of her face in a futile attempt to protect herself.
"No! Don't! It's Barton!" Clint strains against the ties again, even though he knows he's not getting anywhere. "My name's Barton! Clint Barton."
Blacker doesn't react for a moment, then drops the woman on the floor without another glance. She lands next to the other and curls up, hands over her face.
"Thank you," Blacker says.
He kills her anyway.