I feel sweat and adrenaline drench my entire body. My sweat pants and shirt are soaked while my fists feel sweaty and heavy in my boxing gloves. I raise them to my cheekbones, flipping my dark hair from sticking to my face. The punching bag in front of me sways slightly from my last assault.
"Move!" Barton's annoying voice barks behind me.
I breathe sharply, blink, and slightly widen my eyes all at the same time in a face of annoyed exasperation. I paused for one moment, and you're already up my ass. I conveniently pretend the punching bag is Hawkeye's face and attack it like it's the devil. I throw all the force in my body at the bag, gritting my teeth and punching it over and over and over again with haywire and indirect punches. I currently don't really care about the accuracy; I just want to beat the shit out of anything right now. My face contorts into an expression of pain, fury, frustration, desperation, and all the intense emotions I've been feeling lately. I feel myself start to lose control on my carefully bottled up feelings and my vision begins to tunnel. The bag no longer represents a training tool; it's the injustice and unfairness I've been feeling. No matter how many times I punch it over and over and over again, it stays right there, as unaffected by my brutality as if I was never even here. This infuriates me to an incensed rage that consumes all my thought, focus, and sense. My vision is completely red. If possible, I throw myself into the bag even more, completely using my all-consuming, seething rage to hurl myself onwards. I am no longer just using bone-shattering punches, but bone-snapping kicks as well. I integrate all different kicks, punches, and any other type of defense I know into a rhythm that is brutally and gruelingly mollifying. I smile in a sick and twisted sense of pleasure as my red tunnel vision grows even more intense.
Suddenly, it isn't the bag in front of me anymore, it's Hawkeye. I gasp in shock, feeling his rough hands capture my wrists. Swiftly I just catch him making a leg swipe at my knees. Without thinking, I jump over his kick and twist my wrists to get out of his grip. His eyes darken when he sees my resistance and his grip turns into iron bands.
All at once, my hearing returns in a tingling roar.
"Keira!" he thunders in a voice that makes me falter. Suddenly, I blink and my tunnel red vision dissipates along with my fury, betraying me to be so much more fragile, smaller, and weaker compared to the menacing man in front of me.
I see his next move coming, but I'm so disoriented I don't try to resist. He twists my wrist behind me, forcing me to whip around and give him my back so he doesn't snap either my ulna or my radius clean in half (both being bones that connect the forearm to the many little bones that make the wrist, some of which are the pisiform, scaphoid, lunate, I could go on). He kicks my knees from under me, forcing me to kneel with my back leaning at an odd angle backwards and my arm twisted at an even odder angle behind me. His other hand grabs my hair, yanking my head back painfully putting even more strain on my arm and back.
I grit my teeth as I stare up at the ceiling and claw at his hand in my hair with my own free hand. I'm able to work my fingers under one of his and yank on it, but he's too strong for me when all I am using is my muscle strength and no leverage while he has superior muscle strength and perfect leverage.
"When I give you the order to stop, you are going to stop or I will be damn sure to make you scream in pain until you will never disobey my orders again," he hisses in my ear.
At any other time, his deadly promises would make me doubt his sanity, but I'm so confused right now it has almost no effect on my already-maxed-to-the-limit inner turmoil. All I can think iswhat…the…hell…? How did I completely lose it? The amount and intensity of my frustration and anger scares me. I could've killed anyone at that given moment without a second thought. And to be honest, right now I'm flip shit scared.
"Cl—Clint?" I gasp, blinking back tears of remorse and shame for being brought so low, but also, terror of myself.
I let myself go completely slack in his grip, unconsciously forcing him to let me go or the extra strain would break my arm. He drops me as if I was on fire and I roll a few feet away from him. I just lay there, one arm trapped under my stomach and the other curled in a fist by my head.
"How… how long was I… unresponsive?" I manage to ask through harsh breathes.
He doesn't answer.
I lift my head, but no one is there. Immediately my guard goes up. I don't let my eyes leave the spot where he was standing, but immediately all my senses hone in around me. I become hyper aware of sounds, movement, and shifts in air currents. Even the most deadly silent spy cannot be completely undetectable simply because of the mass of their bodies and the rules of physics. Hawkeye taught me that the painful way.
I feel a shift behind me and stiffen, but don't move. I don't know what he's playing, but I'm going to compliant as hell after the slip-up meltdown he just watched me preform. I know he caught my little move and knows I know he is behind me. Even the smallest body language tips him off, and call it pride, but I want him to know that I'm just as good as he is. That he can't slip around me anymore.
Two calloused hands grasp my shoulders from behind and drag me to my feet. I could think of five different ways to get out of his grip, but I don't act. If I think about it too much, it's a little scary. Seven months and I've already fine-tuned my skills of observation, detection, and examination of my surroundings. I may not be able to best Hawkeye in a fight yet, but my mind works at a ridiculously fast pace and that is the only reason I am able to keep up with his spars at all. I quickly learned that even though some people may be much bigger than me (it doesn't take much considering my impressive height of 5'), they will underestimate me and use brute force. They think with their muscles since their minds do not have the capacity to keep up in a fight. I, however, am easily able to best them from sheer outsmarting. I am able to pull off stunts or tricks that no one would think of because the outcome does not look positive, but since my mind works at an accelerated pace, I am able to analyze all the plausible outcomes of any situation and the statistical likelihood of any move I make in a matter of milliseconds.
Like I said, if I think about it too much it freaks me out.
The only problem is, Hawkeye does the same. I learned the trick from him indirectly. I simply watched him as he attacked me and found his tactics by spotting patterns. Of course, I can tell his mind doesn't work at the same frequency of mine, but he has experience, and he fights smart.
Right now, I feel his iron grip on my upper arms and stand rigidly stiff, staring straight ahead.
His low voice next to my ear makes me want to bolt. "You were angry," he whispers.
"No shit," I respond wryly with an eye roll.
"Never fight angry," he says darkly, "it clouds your judgment and gives the enemy a distinct advantage over you. Learn to channel that anger to clear your thoughts instead." He pauses and I immediately stiffen even more. I can feel the tension spike in the air the same way it does before a major storm. He's about to deliver some sort of verbal punch that I do not want to hear. "You are angry at me."
That was unexpected. I thought he would be a bit more subtle about it. Is it really that obvious?
"I'm angry at a lot of things, Hawkeye," I respond warily. I don't want to give him too much, he's getting into to my personal space (figuratively) and I don't trust him enough to let him that close again.
Suddenly, he spins me around to face him and I still eye him suspiciously. He looks exactly the same as that first fateful day in Manhattan when he first found me. With his already intense eyes even more intense with adrenaline and his hair slightly spikey and plastered against his forehead with sweat, I feel like I was transported in a time machine.
"You're angry with me because you feel none of this is fair. You feel abandoned. You think that you were dragged here out of your old life, and now SHIELD has simply forgotten all about you 'cause you didn't cut it. You think that your worst dreams are coming real. The big agency used you up, and now they are going to throw you out. You're scared, and you don't know how to handle it."
I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his words. They sting. They sting like alcohol poured on a cut. My head whips to the side as if I had been slapped. I can't look at him. Maybe if I pretend he's gone, that I'm anywhere else, that what he's saying isn't true, it won't hurt as much. And I'm right. As soon as I get a grip and stuff down my emotions, pretending that what he's saying is ridiculous, the pain subsides to a dull ache deep in my chest. This kind of pain I can, and know how, to deal with. I almost breathe a sigh of relief and my face instantly relaxes.
But I forgot Hawkeye was watching me.
And he's called Hawkeye for a reason.
Suddenly, a gut wrenching shake pulls me out of my inner havoc and when my eyes snap open I come face to face with a very pissed looking Clint Barton. His sniper eyes are dark and penetrating with rage, so much so that it is hard for me to stare him straight in the eye. I try to avert my gaze, but he just shakes me even harder.
I gasp, my upper arms pinned to my body, but with the limited mobility of my lower arms, I shove them against his chest, trying to push him away from me. Trying to push his inquiring mind, his sharp gaze, his too smart guesses, and his scarily correct assumptions all away from me. Trying to protect myself from the pain I know I'll feel if he is hell bent on dragging everything from me.
"Stop," he orders, his voice deceptively calm, but I see the rage in his eyes.
"Stop what? I'm not even doing anything," I mutter, trying to look at the ground.
"You know what you're doing," he emphasizes with a slight shake. He is holding my shoulders so tense that only the tips of my toes are still touching the floor. "You're shutting down. I can see you stuffing it away. You don't want to feel the pain, so instead of facing it you run," he says, his voice intonation, rising and falling with force and intensity.
"I'm not a coward!" I shout, squeezing my eyes shut again, but this time to keep something in, not something out. Tears. I need to keep the tears in. Tears are a drop of clear, salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when the eye is irritated, nothing more. Weak people use them to show signs of distress, but that is not what they are for. They are meant to wash out the irritation in the eye, not to show deep emotions that well up from the soul. Maybe that's why those weak people use them, because when they cry, they subconsciously think that those tears will serve the same purpose for their troubles as they do for their eye. Maybe, the tears will wash away all the problems of their little world, leaving a clean slate. But the problem with that is you can drown in your tears as well.
I need to keep the tears at bay. They show weakness. They show fear. They show frailty. In my world, there is no room for any of these. I let out a gasp as if I'm drowning in water. There is a burning in my chest. A burning need for air, but I'm suffocating. The tears are right behind my defenses, but I can't decide whether those defenses are strong or extremely weak. One crack in them, however, and a floodgate would be forced open.
"I never said you were," he murmurs, a drastic difference in his tone than before. It stabs me in the heart like a rusty knife. That is the Clint I remember. The one that cared for me enough to follow me to the ends of the earth to find me. This is my mentor.
But it's just enough to get my barricades to crack.
Suddenly, rage boils inside my chest. He's about to break my walls, and the fact that he's so close to doing it makes me get a grip on myself. No one is able to break my walls, not even my mentor.
I take a single breath before galvanizing into action without even a second thought. I brace my legs firmly on the floor as leverage, twisting myself around. I feel his grip tighten, as expected, but my move has already crossed his arms at an odd angle, giving me the advantage in kinesthetic leverage, despite my smaller size, over his superior strength.
I am still twisting, and I bend backwards, slipping between the gap of his arms before I twist completely and close it on myself. I feel his hands slip and I twist my hips around so I can catch my formerly moving backwards weight now forwards and in a lunge.
I use the lunge to push off the ground. I feel my legs go completely straight as I launch into a front aerial, my back arching gracefully as I spot the ground in perfect posture. Just as I feel myself nearing the highest point in the flip, I twist so that I land facing forwards, towards Hawkeye's back.
Now I have positioned myself on Barton's five o'clock and I can see him in the motion of swinging around. I estimate I have about 0.67 seconds before he turns around completely and a full 1.04 seconds before he can throw the first punch. This gives me two options, 1. To go straight for him now as it will take me about 0.54 seconds for me to be able to hit a jump-spin-hook-kick on his head, which, by my reckoning, should knock him out for five minutes tops, unless, of course, he is able to block and then will most likely attempt a counter maneuver, 2. Turn around and run the other direction, jumping off the training bar 9.6 feet behind me and taking the higher ground in the rafters, giving me an advantage of being unseen and coming down on my opponent from above.
Both maneuvers would give me the equal amount of success at winning, though one would simply take longer and that in itself is a risk as the tables may turn in a matter of moments. Right now, I have the upper hand, so I decide to take this advantage. I push off the ground, relishing the feel of the floor being left far behind me and make a jump-spin-hook-kick straight for Clint's head. As I'm in the air, I see his muscles tense. Oh crap.
I know before I even move that he can feel the shift in the air behind him. He crouches, making me miss him by an inch. I come down hard, uncalculated force driving me into the ground. I quickly side roll out of it, standing with ease only to see him coming straight at me with a roundhouse kick. I bend back like a rubber doll, letting his leg sail over the upper half of my body before snapping up countering with a simple right hook. This is child's play, but I get the feeling that neither of us is fighting to win in the most orthodox sense. He quickly responds with an absorption technic, blocking my punch, but then letting it follow through and using some of his own force to spin me around. I quickly switch to a grappling technic to keep myself from being swung around and giving him my back. I grab his arm, which is already conveniently close to me, and wrap one of my own arms around it, pulling it against my abdomen. At the same time, I slide down and forward, basically pulling Barton into himself as I slide to his right, my left next to his leg. He's forced to shoulder roll forward so I don't jam his knee and possibly tear his ACL. We end up on the floor and I wrap my legs around his shoulder, my boots resting on his chest, and I pull his arm up my body and jamming the elbow back into a deep armbar. But he's quick. Using his strength, he pushes past my leg hold and grabs his own hand, pulling it to resist my grip. I know that soon he will completely wrench from my grasp, but I hold on for dear life, my face contorting in effort and sweat dripping down my face.
This is where the fight matters. I have him on the ground with the advantage on my side. Right now I have to finish him or he will finish me. A plan darts into my mind, but it involves hurting him, which, if I'm completely honest, is only pricking the intellectual part of my conscience, not my emotion side. Frankly stating it, I want to hurt him. He's been a stupid S.O.B. and I want to make him suffer.
I viciously knee him in the face and he goes slack immediately with a cry of pain. I roll over to pin him, but I underestimated his reciprocal timing. A punch in my eye sends me reeling back with splashes of light exploding all around. I collapse against the mats, my world at a crooked angle. I open my good eye to a slit and shift my position the slightest to see the son of a bitch cupping his nose to staunch the bleeding at the same time as I try to get a grip on my spinning world. I see that I actually didn't miscalculate his rejuvenation ability, only his pain endurance. The punch was to muddle me in order to give him enough time to reciprocate.
Suddenly, all the fight drains from my body. I don't want to plan anymore. I don't want to think. I don't want to fight. I don't want to constantly be looking at Barton as a target I need to eliminate.
I slump forward tiredly, pushing myself into a sitting position and agonizingly dragging myself closer to him.
He sends me a glare, both of us wincing simultaneously as he resets his nose with a crunch. "Brat," he spits shooting bullets at me with his sniper eyes.
"Son of a bitch," I counter automatically, more focused on wincing as I tenderly probe the dark bruise forming around my swollen eyelid.
We sit in a comfortable silence as we both nurse our minor injuries. Neither of us is really hurt, I've taken a lot worse in the first few months of my imprisonment here.
I guess both of us have finally gotten things off our chest. I've had my dig at Barton and I don't know what his deal is, but he seems calmer already, too. For a moment, at least, we can simply enjoy each other's company. But a part of my gut is nagging, saying this is only the eye in the storm. I push it away. Even if it is, I need a respite. I finally do not have a storm of emotions raging, literally bottled up in my chest like a mini storm wrecked ship being tossed around in a bottle. Everything is calm. Everything is taken care of. I can breathe.
Slowly and agonizingly, Barton stands up, working out kinks in his shoulders, back, knuckles, and neck. I wince as their ear cracking pops echo around the painfully silent gym. Human bones were not made to snap like that.
Suddenly, I hear his trademark laugh, and I stiffen reflexively. Don't blame me, I've only ever heard him laugh bitterly when he finds something twisted, sickly, sadistically, or darkly funny. I let my gaze travel up to his face, which is half hidden from me by his broad shoulders, but from what I can see he is actually smiling.
He cracks his neck again and rolls his shoulders, jumping loosely like a track runner. I've never seen him look this young. A smile of genuine pleasure and something akin to stress relief is plastered on his face. His laugh is low, and closer to a chuckle, as if he finds something funny that would only be funny to him personally, but I've never heard him laugh just for the pleasure of it.
"Ok, who are you and what did you do with the real Clint Barton?" I scowl.
He doesn't respond, but lets out another laugh and extends a hand. I grasp it and let him pull me to my feet. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he claps my shoulder and, I swear, the bastard literally swaggers off.
"Well I'm glad everything's peachy for you," I mumble, turning away. I look at the clock. Still got two hours of gym time, but I'm getting the vibe that we're done for the day. I head back to my room and the halls are deadly silent. I smirk, remembering when I first came here and I was terrified to be caught alone somewhere in this massive compound. Well, the bullies came along once upon a time. They only needed one go-round before I earned a reputation. Sometimes I wonder of Ortuso just hangs around me for that. He's gotta admit, after that epic beating, no one has bothered him or me since.
Naturally, I got sent "to the principal's office," but I feel like I was immune to their punishment except for a major scolding, which I batted away like a fly. I'm guessing my immunity came from some benefit of being Hawkeye's renowned protégé. It didn't take people long. After they saw me constantly in his presence, they figured it out. Started calling me the Hawk's girl. I could care less. I let them build tales and lies around me, letting it protect me like an impenetrable wall, and one they built themselves no less. Of course, I don't plan on being here very long, but if these walls help my reputation when I get onto a SHIELD base, by all means, lay 'em on thick.
It's called playing smart. Something I learned from Ortuso.
Ortuso.
I grimace inwardly as my thoughts go in a full circle. That kid has gotten under my skin. I can't explain why. It's never happened to me before. Maybe it's because we are so similar, or because we both share some sort of weird connection. To be honest, a lot of people would call me a bitch, and I don't mind. But with Ortuso, it's different. I don't want to hurt him, and it irks me. I'm torn. I want to keep him at arms distance, only using him for my own purposes, but to do that I need to be around him nonstop, and the more time I spend with him, the closer we get. It's like some creepy force of nature drawing us together.
I hate it.
But knowing he's angry with me forms a lead weight in my chest that I know won't go away until I apologize.
I scowl, scuffing the wall with my standard-issue combat boots. But my scowl fades into a look of resigned martyrdom. Fine. I'll apologize the next time I see him. We're both each other has in this mini world in the compound of games and intrigue.
I reach my room and automatic door slides open when a laser face-recognition scans my eye.
"Hey Sif," I murmur as I walk in.
"Good to see you, as always. May I remind you, you are here on unauthorized entry. Your schedule dictates that you have another two hours, thirty-three minutes, and sixty-four seconds in physical training before your mental stimulation and military tactics, which go for five hours, and then languages for another three. I must assume that you know of your schedule and were dismissed, but I have no record of a permission slip for this date."
"Yeah, always good to see you too," I groan as I lower myself onto the cot.
"I am reading your vital signs and my readings say you have only drunk 32 oz. of water so far, and you are drastically low. May I suggest ordering another three cups from the cafeteria?"
"I feel fine," I mumble, closing my eyes. "I just need some rest. Dim lights and hold all notifications. Set alarm for mental stimulation and military tactics."
Sif finally shuts up and the lights dim. I lie in the dark, resting my eyes. I let my muscles slowly relax and feel the adrenaline from the spar slowly decreasing. It's like a high, and I've been running on it for the past eight months.
Even though I am seriously sleep deprived, my body is not used to inactivity in the middle of the day. I let my eyes close restlessly, feeling dead tired, but my mind runs at a hundred miles per hour. I focus on each part of my body, relaxing the muscles. Finally, I start to feel the dark fog of oblivion rest on my conscious.
Hawkeye P.O.V.
"I just got a notification that I don't understand, and you better have a damn good explanation for it," Director Fury's voice echoes ominously over the com line. I can just see his one eye glaring.
"Director Fury—"I start smoothly before being cut off.
"Don't you dare 'Director Fury' me. I want to know why I'm giving authorization for a fifteen year old kid to go into the field after only eight months of training. Do you understand how much the Council is going to be up my ass if they catch wind of this?"
"Yes sir, I take full—" I attempt to cut in again.
"Ever since New York I have had to take more crap for you than your ass is worth! Hell, even before New York! You have always been one of our most volatile agents, but this? Are you mother f*ckin' kidding me? If this leaks in any way, this girl is so young Child Resources would be hounding after me. Despite what you might think, SHIELD is not above—"
"I understand, Director, but Romanoff and I are your top agents. We do the impossible. If you need a job done, we'll do it in the hardest of circumstances, with no backup or extraction. But tell me this; who's going to get it done when we die? The life expectancy for this job is minimal. Sure, you've got good agents, like that upcoming one, what's his name? Ward? But he's still not at our level. You need someone to count on that can do the impossible, same as us. Now I'm going to hand her to you on a silver platter, but I need to do this my way. She will be efficient, deadly, unbreakable, and unstoppable. Think of the benefits of having a third asset of that skill level. They don't come along every day, and they sure as hell don't come from the Recruit Academy. Not with the extent of her skills.
"You've already seen her scores. They are off the charts. Her intelligence is already at the level of some of your best techs. You know her physical capability. This is all with just a few short months of my training. Do you realize how much she is going to sky rocket when we start pushing her for real?"
There is silence. I can hear him digesting my words. Finally a sigh breathes through the speaker. "You're one son of a bitch, you know that? Fine, do whatever you want. I'll keep it quiet at this end. Just bring her back in one piece or I will—"
"Director, this was already on me from the beginning." My voice carries a smug hint. A string of obscenities is hurled my way and I grim lopsidedly to myself, killing the com.
Time for phase 2.
Keira's P.O.V.
I feel that cold, clammy sweat that sticks to your body after taking a nap in the middle of the day. It drenches my already stiff and uncomfortable muscles. I can feel the lack of calories and the complete exhaustion to the extent that it feels as if there is no heat left in my body. Everything is brittle. My eyesight is bleary and my entire body is shaky.
I stand unsteadily to my feet, trying to take enough steps towards my desk, but my muscles feel absolutely drained and they tingle in an unpleasant manner as I try to use them for simply walking, but they don't have the strength. I feel them collapsing on me so I end up tripping over my own feet and crumpling unceremoniously into my hard, desk chair.
I lean forward, laying my head on my knees and gripping it with my hands. I dry heave, but there is nothing in my stomach to come up. Not even water. I feel so cold all over. After three minutes of heavy breathing, I can finally straighten. I should probably go to medical for dehydration and malnutrition, but I would only go to medical if I was dying. I avoid that place like the plague. I reach for my desk and pull it to me. I catch my reflection on its dark surface. I look horrible.
My dark hair is pulled back into a frizzy ponytail and my cheeks are hollow. I have the constant dark bruises under my eyes, but now the left is magnified with a horribly swelled and welting bruise over my eyelid while the eye is swollen shut.
Shoot. I forgot to ice that.
That's ok. You gave it to 'im good.
I smile crookedly at the remembrance of our spar, but the result is ghastly. I look like some zombie out of a horror film.
I quickly palm the screen, illuminating the room with the glow of the monitor and dispelling the awful image of me. The time comes up.
Holy shit! I slept for seven hours!
"Sif!" I choke out. "Why didn't you wake me up? I just missed all of my classes!"
"No need to be alarmed. I received an update from the Central Command. All classes are canceled and you are to be reassigned immediately. You are scheduled for departure at 0500 tomorrow. Based on your vital signs, you are sleep-deprived to the point of exhaustion. I thought it best to let you catch a few hours of rest before your travels," she states matter-of-factly.
I feel my body coming to life. Adrenaline begins pumping through my system once again. "Who asked you?! Never mind. Locate Agent Barton."
Hawkeye's P.O.V.
I pack my minimal gear into the basic SHIELD duffel bag. I've lived out of these things for God knows how many years. Finally, eight months of itching inactivity is coming to an end.
"Agent Barton," a clipped voice states from my doorway.
"Always good to see you, Hunter," I mutter sarcastically. Did I mention the ecstatic freedom of finally getting away from Agent Hunter? Sometimes I'm convinced this woman my own personal hell put on earth as Divine Justice from Heaven.
"Look," she starts with a tone that makes me frown. I've never heard her speak except with a cold professionalism or like a dragon spitting incinerating words at me. Now, she seems… earnest. Weird. "I don't know what's going on with the recruit, and I'm not sure I want to know, but I saw your destination in the data log. I can only guess what you will be doing from there."
I straighten, but don't turn to face her. Great. Now I have another person breathing down my neck.
I hear her footsteps as she enters.
"Listen to me, I know what you think of her, and I know she's your responsibility. I won't get mixed up between you. But you have to remember Barton, she's only human."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked guardedly, turning to face her ice blue eyes.
"Look at her current vital signs." Hunter holds up a tablet with the reading of Keira's vitals being monitored by her suit, as all of the recruits are. "She is at the point of exhaustion. She is dehydrated. She is malnourished. It's a wonder she is even standing. I don't even know how she's been making it the past few months with the beatings you've given her, or the mental strain she's been put under.
"Wake up, Barton! She's not superhuman. She's in no condition to be going where you are taking her! She should be in medical right now, not getting ready to fly half way across the world to confront one of the hardest challenges in her life, which is saying a lot considering what she has faced the past months. If she were any regular recruit, we would have hauled her ass down to medical three weeks ago, but just because she's under your supervision, she's untouchable." Hunter's jaw is clenched. I gaze back levelly. She takes a deep breath. "I don't know her, where she's from, or her limitations like you do, but there is something different about her. There is something else we don't understand going on here. By all rights, she should have broken long ago… I just… I don't understand…" Hunter trails off, staring at the ground. She sounds like she's talking to herself more than to me. Then her hard gaze travels back up to my eyes.
"Hunter…"I sigh, "you already know she's not a regular recruit, and I'm not going to treat her like one. She was meant for more. You're right, if she was normal, she would have broken months ago, but I know she can do this, because she isn't normal. I don't know what fusion of genes she was given and why nature formed them to make her the way she is, but I have never seen the like in a normal human being. There are no natural humans that come close to her level of ability. Romanoff? She's enhanced. Rogers? He's a super soldier for crying out loud. There is Agent May and Ward, but they took years of training. Keira is catching up to them fast and at sixteen too. Why was she built this way? Who knows, but I intend to take advantage of whatever bizarre fluke of nature made her the way she is."
I hear Hunter exhale and she purses her lips. She steps forward. We stare eye to eye. "Please, Barton… don't break her beyond repair."
My ears pick up on quick, light footsteps. I know that tread. It's light and soft, like the patter of a child's.
Hunter steps back, not breaking eye contact. I feel the tension defuse as if someone twisted a knob.
"BARTON! YOU SICK, LOW BASTARD!" I involuntarily wince at the sheer shrillness of her voice. I had no idea a girl's voice could get so high.
I look over Hunter's shoulder and see her stand, fuming, in the doorway. She pauses, seeing I'm not alone.
With one last glare, that I ignore, Hunter turns. "Recruit," she addresses professionally. The cold devil is back.
"Agent Hunter," Keira responds through gritted teeth. Oh boy, she just can't wait to get me alone.
As if reading my thoughts, Hunter smirks, turning to me and ignoring Keira for a moment. "Have fun with that," before heading out the door.
Keira stands respectfully aside to let her superior pass, before turning back to me. Somehow, that respect for superior authority just doesn't seem to transfer from her mind to me.
"What the heck, Barton?" she hisses as soon as she is sure Hunter is gone.
"Yup," I clap my hands together, turning back to my gear, "we've got a big day tomorrow. Better get packing."
Nope. She won't drop it that easily.
"Barton, where are we going?" she continues to hiss.
"I'm absolutely sure you already know where we are going."
"Then WHAT are we DOING there?"
I swing around, letting my features harden. I'm done playing good cop. "I'm your trainer, Keira. I call the shots. Where I say you go, you go without a question. What I say you do, you also do without question. You learn to accept the information given to you and you learn to work with it. This is your first lesson."
I turn around, ignoring her now. I start packing, acting like I'm not aware of her existence, but actually monitoring her reaction carefully. Her breathing is harsh and I can feel her narrowed gaze on the back of my head. She doesn't like being in the dark. She doesn't trust enough to simply follow orders and not know the various factors and consequences of her actions on the big scale. But she has to learn if she wants to work for SHIELD. She has to learn to accept hierarchy if she wants to survive here. She has to adapt.
I wait, expecting her to either snap, or become compliant. The seconds tick by.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Finally I hear it. She lets out an infuriated breath and turns heel, stalking away. I smile crookedly. First lesson down.
Keira's P.O.V.
Oh dear Lord, I hate this! We are on our way to Syria and I have no idea why. Is it a mission? Am I being tested? Are they monitoring me? What is goingon?
"Calm breaths, Keira. I'm sure it's just… a small intel gathering… stakeout. Yeah, just a stakeout. And then we'll go get coffee… in Syria… do Syrians have good coffee? Turkish coffeeis a method of preparing coffee. Roasted and then finely ground coffee beans are boiled in a pot (cezve), usually with sugar, and served in a cup where the grounds are allowed to settle. This method of serving coffee is found in the Middle East, North Africa, the Caucasus, the Balkans, Bali, and various locations within Eastern Europe," my brain helpfully lists off. "Turkish better be good or… or… oh crap!" I suddenly just need to get out of this place. I throw down the clothes I was packing into the SHIELD duffel bag and look around desperately for an escape.
I feel another panic attack coming. I know myself well enough. I feel that familiar welling in my throat that wants to take over all other parts of me. My mind. My emotions. My reason. My body.
I don't panic. I won't panic.
My cornered mind searches for the one place I know is safe. The duct system. With frantic movements, I curl my fingers around the vent and yank it off, letting it clatter to the floor and then wiggling up into the shaft, I start crawling in the dark. It's soothing. There is no noise up here, just me. I take a couple turns, not really paying attention to where I'm going. I let my mind go blank. If I start to think, I might just go insane. I'm beginning to doubt my ability to cope with the stress.
I blink as I unexpectedly find a vent and the light filters through and stings my sore eyes. But it's welcome. I curl my fingers around the bars and lift my head to the light, letting it pierce through the dim haze of my conscience. Opening my eyes, I look down to find I have wandered above one of the training rooms. This is a large one filled with recruits. I don't know which unit they are, but they must be the older ones. My guess is the eighteen-year-olds.
They are practicing fighting technics with a number of instructors. I've never been in a unit, but it looks interesting. I watch, feeling small and tiny through the vent. They are focused, they are good. The guys are all tall and well-built. The girls are slightly more feminine versions of Agent Hunter, but all are strong and capable. The shortest one is probably five inches taller than me.
I study their technics. They are learning and practicing ones I learned a month ago. Suddenly, I wonder. They are all so much bigger, so much more experienced. Why am I the one getting special attention? I'm fast, sure. I could take down bigger opponents if I play my cards right, but what separates me from them? Why am I the one singled out from the crowd? Me. The one who comes with an unsavory background. Me. The one who spent the first half of her life thieving. These teenagers have worked hard, I can see it in their movements. They are fast. They are skillful. They are clever. I'm just a small, scrawny, sixteen-year-old with an over-active brain.
What strikes me is the camaraderie that surrounds them. Granted, they've probably grown up together, but they interact with an easy friendship that I haven't seen before. A spar commences on the training mats between a slight girl with mousey-brown hair, and a huge, hulking boy with blond curls. I can already predict who will win, but the girl doesn't give up that easily. She gets close to beating him many times, but in the end his sheer strength gives him the edge and she taps out in a choke hold. But afterwards, there is no hostility, no venom. He good naturedly helps her up and they clap shoulders and move on easily, the girl laughing at her mistakes and the guy taking no gratification in his victory. The rest of the recruits occasionally call out jokes or good-natured ribbing from across the room, using the short-hand slang that is developed here.
I pull away, feeling like more of an outsider than ever. Now I know I'll never see them again. Just like everything else, I'm going to leave this place behind. It hasn't become my home, but I'll remember it with fondness. This Training Center. It was the first time I ever experienced something challenging. Something thrilling. I soaked up new knowledge and started a new life here. But now I'm moving on and the people here will forget me. I'll probably never see it again. I always leave everyone behind.
Everyone.
Suddenly it hits home.
Everyone.
The word echoes mockingly in my ears.
Everyone.
Everyone. Including Ortuso.
I feel the weight on my chest magnify a thousand times. I have to leave him behind too. I have to leave my one friend behind. Then it dawns on me. He's my friend.
I have a friend.
And then,I'm leaving him.
There is a ringing in my ears. This feels like the last straw. Whatever grip I had before is now slipping away. I slowly lean back and off my knees until I'm sitting with my back against the walls of the vent because I can't hold myself up anymore. I gather my knees to my chest and clutch them desperately. My breaths reverberate in my ears, echoing off each other, yet each slow and deliberate. At first I think I'm going blind, but it's not blindness. It's tears. Something between a moan and a choke comes out of my throat. I clamp my clammy hands over my mouth to stop those horrible sounds, but they keep coming, even if they are muffled.
For the first time, I feel actual tears gather in my eyes. All the times the past months that I've suppressed them has made me forget what it feels like to just let them go. I couldn't stop them even if I tried. These aren't like any of the tears I've cried in the past. They gather in my eyes, making my vision useless, until they fall in huge, fat drops that are so heavy they don't even slide down my cheek. They slide right off my eyelashes and drip down onto my lap or splash my hands, which are across my mouth, on the way down. The tears leave my already weary eyes very wet and sore. My eyelashes feeling extremely heavy and it takes effort just to bat them and rid my eyes of the nuisances that drip from them.
The noises still come from the back of my throat, and no matter how much I try to press them down, they keep getting louder. Tears are a drop of clear, salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when the eye is irritated, nothing more, I tell myself desperately, but the old formula doesn't work this time. Nothing can stop what I've stifled for so long.
Suddenly, I feel something brush my arm. Sheer reflex takes over and I spin around (as much as I can in the limited space) and throw a fist in that direction. It's haywire, easily divertible, but I'm in no condition for a fight right now.
Someone grabs my fist out of the air. I stay put, feeling my whole body shake from my inner trauma, and slowly my vision clears. Ortuso is there, holding my trembling fist inches away from his face.
His eyes travel from it, where they were previously trained, to my face, which must look horrible. His normally blue eyes glint nearly black in the half-light and his serious face is covered in shadow. "Careful where you throw that thing."
Something between a squeak, a moan, and a choked laugh leaves my mouth in a gust. I fall back into my former position, but now press my eyes into the heels of my hands. This time, I can't cover up the sobbing sounds, so I don't try to.
I feel Ortuso shift. His arms go around my shaking shoulders and he pulls me to his side. If I was myself right now, I would either shrug him away, or punch him in the gut, but all I register is how not-awkward it is, which surprises me. We usually never touch. I guess it's an unconscious rule that was built between us. Or maybe I built it and Ortuso just lets it be. But right now it feels like we've known each other all our lives. Like this soothing contact isn't wrong.
But friends comfort each other, right?
And I just admitted to myself that he's a friend.
I decide not to let all the other complications that come with this realization settle in, yet. After all, it would make betrayal just that much worse.
His hand travels over my frizzed hair, smoothing it behind my ears. I just curl up, resting my cheek against his chest. I can't explain Ortuso. He's not funny. Not in a literal sense, but he has a dry cynicism and knows what to say at the right time that shows the dry irony of any given situation. There is absolutely nothing romantic about him. He's a geek. But he's not nerdy, at all. One of the first things I noticed about him was his firm presence, and no nerd has that. He has a leadership that surrounds him, despite his small size. He is smart, extremely smart. That was another part of him that I first noticed. But he's kind, even if it is covered with his deadpan sarcasm. I trust him.
He doesn't say anything, so the only sounds are my sobs. They sound so weak. I try to suppress them, but then they come out embarrassingly louder than before. He must know about my transfer, but he doesn't ask any questions. I'm too much of a mess to answer anyways.
I feel that the little dispute from this morning is forgotten, which makes a small part of me glad. At least we won't part on bad terms. I also feel that this unexpectedly and inexplicably soft side of Ortuso will not make another appearance any time soon. He doesn't usually waste time with emotions. And I don't either. Something really wrong must have gotten into me.
Now I realize what we are. We are two kids, both from the streets, trying to survive together. We are the two outsiders. The only two skulking in the vent. We are just trying to make it through our lives, and to what goal? Is there anything we really have to live for? Or are we just following the primal instinct in our primitive, animal side that tells us to survive? And here we are together, hiding in the dark, trying to block the cruel realities of a world that is harsh and unforgiving to the children like us, the ones with no one to turn to.
After a little while, my crying subsides to the occasional hiccup, and he pushed me up to a sitting position. He tugs his sleeve over his hand, using it to wipe my face. "Clean up the waterworks."
I push his hand away. I can do that much by myself. I wipe them off roughly with the heel of my hand. He just watches me. I don't feel a no-touch barrier, but I feel him going back into his usual cynicism that, as oddly as it sounds, never insults me. I find it comforting. It's part of him.
For the sake of conversation, I speak up, but my voice is thick and nasally and sounds despairingly childish. "How did you find me?"
He doesn't move, "I know you better than you think."
I let out a scoff that is more of a tiny laugh than actually mocking him. "I'm getting that vibe from a lot of people."
"Or just two."
I look up quickly. His expression hasn't changed at all. I used to find that creepy, but now I know it's his 'contemplating' face. He's waiting for affirmation. I shrug, and go back to wiping my eyes. "Hawkeye is an annoying reprobate that has made it his life's mission to confuse me."
"He makes perfect sense to me."
My brow furrows. All I can think to say is, "what?"
"I'm surprised you haven't caught on yet actually. It was apparent to me from day one."
"Well then, please, enlighten me," I wince internally at how snappish my tone is.
Ortuso doesn't seem to care. "He's not as bad as you think." I just stare blankly at him. "I mean," he starts to elaborate, "while he may seem distant or harsh—"
"Or cruel," I mumble.
He goes on as if I didn't speak, "he's not any of those, really. He's a good person, but he's an agent. He's never going to babysit you."
"I never asked him to," I retort.
"No" he relents, "but you want him to stay in character."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that you place all your expectation in him being and acting a certain way. A way that meets your ideals. In your mind, he is the closest thing you have to SHIELD, so you look for all the qualities of the agency inside of him. To you, he is SHIELD. If he presents himself as harsh, or uncaring, you transfer that image to SHIELD, and your paranoia of government will—"
"I'm not paranoid!" I protest.
He doesn't even bother to answer that one, "will creep in, and then you begin to feel panicked and cornered." I purse my lips, but look down at my nails, which are bitten raw to the beds. He's right. He's figured me out better than I have. I am terrified that the way Hawkeye acts is a reflection on the agency. He's really got it pinned.
"Why haven't you said this before?" I almost whisper.
"Because. We were all waiting." His voice is low. My eyes find his fixed gaze. "Waiting for the time when the pressure would either break or make you."
"So now I'm broken," I say hopelessly as I look back down at my hands.
"No, Keira. Not at all. Why else do you think he's pulling you out?" I frown. I hadn't really thought about it. "Because, whatever happened today, you finally proved to him that you're ready. He put you under a monumental amount of stress and emotional anxiety, but he was taking a risk. A gamble."
"A gamble of my life," I whisper, realization dawning. Ortuso simply nods. Suddenly, it makes sense. Apparently everyone knew before I did, but Barton wasn't just training me, he was pressing me, and pressing hard, until I cracked, or became so tough I could take whatever comes at me. Whatever comes at me. Then it clicks. I'm going to be facing so emotionally devastating that it could be ten times worse than this ever was. There will always be pressure. This is a stressful job, but I'm going to be doing something that is the hardest barrier to overcome. The physical can only be so hard, but fear is in our minds, so the hardest fear, or the hardest obstacle, will also be in the mind. That can only be one thing.
I breathe in quickly through my nose. "He was preparing me for this. Where ever I'm going, it's going to be hard, both physically and mentally. But it's so much more than that. It's going to be my first taste of the field." My voice falls to a whisper. "And I'm training to be an assassin. Ortuso, will it be my first kill?"
He stays silent and looks down for the first time. I look down as well, too incredulous to really comprehend this information. This, this, will be the deciding point. If I can do this, than I know I'm have what it takes to be an… assassin. The word sounds bitter in my head, and it would taste even worse on my tongue, let alone if that is the label that will be branded over my head for the rest of my life.
I have a decision. I can either become what they intend for me to be, or I can leave. If I leave, what will I do? No doubt I could make a name for myself in anything I wanted. I know how to take care of myself. All I would need is a new name, and then I could go underground. I could work out my software, which is getting close to being done, and then hit the button. SHIELD would lose all records, all sign that I was ever here.
Except for my connections.
Barton. Ortuso. I could never sever those with a click of a button. They've helped me. More than I would like to admit. They've somehow wormed their way into my heart. If I left them without another word, could I live with myself?
Don't make emotional decisions, Kiera. They cloud your judgment. Make decisions on facts. On concrete evidence. On rational problems. That's the only way you can survive. Remember that no matter what, people will always fail you. Look after yourself, because no one else will.
I press my fists against my temples. That little voice. Always there. Always wanting me to listen to it. It will never go away. It was born from years of abandonment and betrayal. It was the only way I survived. But this is a new life. Do I need to listen to it anymore? What if I stopped trying to survive? What if I just started to live?
What if I lived?
The question brings my train of thoughts to a halt, and that one sentence echoes around my mind. It's so simple, but it means so much. It would mean no more surviving. It would mean friends. It would mean belonging. It would mean trust. It would mean handing over my life to SHIELD and pray they don't break me. Am I capable of giving anyone that kind of trust?
Suddenly, the oddest thought pops into my head. I'm so tired. Three words. But they are so true and they run me down. I'm just so tired, I don't want to fight anymore. All my life, all I've ever wanted is to stop running. Some unseen force has always driven me, making me keep going when it feels the darkest. I don't even know where this force comes from anymore. I used to think it was my will power, but now that my will power is so drained, I know that's not it. Maybe it's just some weird fluke of mine. Maybe it's some innate part of my senses. I don't know, but it will not let me rest. It keeps driving me, pushing me to make the decision bent on survival.
Which decision would let me survive?
Which would let me live?
Neither seem to do much in either department. Killing people for a living doesn't sound like the cheeriest life; but running from an organization as big as SHIELD doesn't sound very feasible either. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated? Why can't everyone leave me alone to live out the rest of my life in as much peace as is possible for someone like me?
But everyone is always chasing me. I have to make a decision, and I have to make one now. At least if I choose SHIELD, I will be on the right side of the law, otherwise, it would be a very shady business all on my own. But since when have I believed in the law? I've seen the power of the underground criminal network, and I'm beginning to wonder which is stronger of the two powers.
Raising my gaze to Ortuso, I see he's been observing me through hooded eyelids, waiting for my decision. I realize I need his advice, his calm, practical mind to analyze the situation. "What do you think… of SHIELD?"
He blinks, thinking over his answer. "I think they are a big organization. And everything that comes with that. Secrets, stories, line bending. I also think they mean to do the right thing, but maybe take the theory of, 'means justify the end,' a little too far. I think, if you were to pick between the lesser of evils, SHIELD is the cleanest. But I can see battling forces inside of it. They are leaning towards the mistake so many big agencies make, to place the outcome over the person, but I also see resistance to fall into that mistake. Have you read the file on the Battle of New York?" he asks. I shake my head. I read the CIA's but I think I was too busy to read SHIELD's lately. "Well, the Council ordered—"
"The Council?" I question.
"They're the big guns, the highest it gets. They are the boss of THE boss, Fury. They are the ones that ordered the nuke on the city that Iron Man diverted."
"It came from this agency? And they put that on the file?" I gasp.
"Are you kidding? Of course not. They would never get their hands dirty like that. The nuke was said to have 'unknown source.' You know SHIELD never leaves anything like that 'unknown.' They didn't even try a recon. Of course it was this agency, or why else would they leave something like that in the dark?" I chew my lip, suddenly doubting the soundness of my sanity that led me to accept the… forced invitation to come here. "But Iron Man had to have gotten a heads up from someone." My eyes snap to his. I don't even have to ask him to explain himself. "Why would he have any part of his program scanning for incoming nukes? All of his energy would have been devoted to the attack, or to alien frequencies. Obviously someone in charge, but not the highest up, had to give a warning."
"Fury?" I already know the answer, but I just need confirmation. Which I get when he nods. Sighing deeply, I don't find this information has helped. Rather, it's added a whole new layer of complexity to this already insanely complex puzzle.
Leaning forward, Ortuso pats my knee. "They're never going to be perfect, but in this messed up world, I think they're the best people like us have got." He straightens, "you have a decision to make, and no one can make it for you. I already made mine. Mostly everyone here has made theirs. Choose carefully, it'll dictate the rest of your life." He turns and I watch him disappear down the tunnel.
Taking a deep breath, I rub my sore, red eyes. I already know what my decision is, I suppose. It's always been the same, I've just resisted it with my whole being.
"Time to go pack," I whisper.
Hawkeye P.O.V.
If I hadn't seen so many bloody deaths, so many mutilations, so many extremely high pressure situations, so many traumatic experiences, I'm sure my hands would be shaking right now.
The blood work came back in. Finally. But it's nothing that I expected
What my eyes see on the paper, my brain tells me is impossible. What my eyes see in Ortuso and Keira, my gut tells me is probable. What my heart sees in both, tells me this could possibly be the most twisted, sick, unhealthy, and disturbing story I've ever come across, let alone gotten caught up in.
I dial my phone and hold it to my ear. I put on my professional mask, the same one that is used for all worst-case-circumstances. "Agent Barton, to Director Fury," I speak monotone to the woman who picks up. I wait, rigid and quiet for the Director to pick up. My mind is reeling. This can't be true. It must be a mistake. But I know it isn't. SHIELD doesn't make mistakes.
"Barton, if this about that girl again, I swear…" I hear his voice sigh through the line. I can just see him rubbing his temples.
"We have a situation, sir," my voice is completely calm and crisp. I can immediately feel the shift in energy, and Fury going on red alert. "I suggest you check the latest blood work done on her, and another recruit, Nathan Ortuso." I wait silently. If I try to explain, he wouldn't believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe me. The silence on the other end of the line confirms Fury's shock as well, something only a very few have ever had the opportunity to experience.
"Where are they now?" his voice is just as cold as mine.
"Still here at the training center, sir."
"Good. You get them separated. You take that girl, and you go to the other side of the God damned planet if you have to. We'll transfer the boy to some other facility. He's already been looked over for an early graduation, now he'll get a real job. They leave, no explanations, no goodbyes. This is dangerous, too dangerous to leave unexplored. Until we know more, it's not safe for them to be together."
"Understood, sir," I reply crisply. It's a good thing we already have tickets.
I hear him sigh, once again. "This may run deeper than we know. There are a lot of Hydra facilities that come up with these experiments, but whoever did this obviously succeeded. If this kind of technology ended up in the hands of terrorists and infiltrators… until we know exactly what we're dealing with, they need to be kept low. No extra attention. The last thing we need is someone looking into them."
No extra attention. That eerily echoes what my thoughts were this morning. Why does it seem that all her life, Keira's genius is always smothered? Why is it always deemed dangerous? Maybe because people can always tell when a person… is not one of them.
"Sir, I'm afraid it may be too late for that."