Keira's POV

"Damn! I missed Christmas!" I sit in the co-pilot seat of a transport quinjet with my SHIELD standard phone, catching up on everything I possibly missed. "Not to mention a terrorist attack that decimated Stark's personal mansion, included a personal hit on the President of the United States, and the betrayal of one of the highest ranking officials in our nation, the Vice President. I would think… that was worth… I don't know… mentioning?" I pointedly ask an unresponsive Clint Barton.

We've been on this transport for three dragging hours with nothing to alleviate the silence except the occasional question or awkward statement, all originating from me. Clint Barton, however, has his headset on and is thoroughly engrossed in the task of flying. I, apparently, am invisible.

"Soooo," I elongate deliberately. I just keep talking because I know it's annoying. "Oh look! More celebrities slept with each other. Middle East is going crazy. Every day bank robbery that isn't important because I didn't do it. The government is being blamed for surveillance drones, which I knew about years ago. People are mad because the CIA can check their cellphones like a jealous girlfriennnnnd, blah blah blah." I throw my phone into the cargo hold (its worthless junk anyways) and lean my head back with closed eyes. I am bored to the point of extreme. I've never felt so much like a child in Clint's presence, to be honest.

I suppose I could try to sleep, but all my nerves are too on edge. I value my life enough to not attempt to annoy Hawkeye in any direct manner. I begin imagining all the subtle things I could do to get his attention…

Suddenly it comes to me in one stroke of pure genius. I jerk up and fumble with my harness and scramble into the cargo hold. In the corner of my eye, I see Clint's eyes follow me, but I ignore him. I locate the phone and (very ungracefully) climb back into my seat. I see he has gone back to his preoccupied-with-bullshit mode.

All it takes is a few clicks of a button, when suddenly an alert comes up on the console screen: "ALERT: PA OVERRIDE." And just like that, the electric guitar of Jimi Hendrix, Purple Haze is blasting over the speakers.

Clint Barton swears some very uncouth words that I will not indulge and rips the screaming headset off his undoubtedly ringing ears. He punches some buttons on the center console, but it does nothing. I have control of the system. I laugh hysterically and raise the volume even louder. He hits autopilot and then leans over to grab the phone. I push myself as far away as possible and hold it over my head. With a growl, he pins one of my arms and grabs the other, pulling it down to him and taking the phone from my grip.

A few button clicks later, the quinjet is completely silent. I cross my arms sulkily and stare out the window. "Such a buzzkill," I grumble.

"Keira—" he begins. I know that tone.

"Don't," I cut him off, "just don't. We're not in enemy airspace, we aren't under any impending attack of any kind, and I am finally free after months of imprisonment in both an 'educational' compound and a hospital. Also, Jimi Hendrix was one of the most celebrated instrumentalists of the 20th century and he was a major influence in the shaping of electric guitar. His music deserves to be enjoyed."

Clint scoffs. "If you want to talk about the shaping of any type of music, I think you should choose Pink Floyd."

"What? No way!"

"Philosophical lyrics, sonic experiment, you name it and they were one of the most musically influential groups in the history of pop or rock music."

"Well, I don't listen to them."

"Have you ever heard their songs?" He looks properly aghast.

"Not exactly?"

"You have no education. Next time there's a chance, you are getting cultured in the true nineteen-seventies music."

"Sure, whatever you say," I laugh. I stretch my arms above my head and arch my back, yawning lazily. I catch Clint's eye, and he is looking at me in a strange way. It's almost… sentimental. Like the look a person would wear when they are seeing a friend for the last time. I shoot him an annoyed glance, and he looks away.

"Keira…" he starts again. This time I don't interrupt him. "The next few weeks are going to be difficult. I won't try sell it to you because you're too smart for that. They're going to be possibly the hardest weeks you've ever faced in your life. What you need to understand is… people change in the field."

"I've changed over the years a lot already, Clint. I'm not the same twelve-year-old I was when I was left alone in the world," I roll my eyes.

"Not like this," he insists. I shut up. "Just remember, Keira, remember who you really are. Don't lose that."

"Who am I?" I mutter to myself.

"You're a stubborn realist who has an overarching sense of morality that urges you to make very stupid decisions occasionally." He responds. I snort, but it is partly true. I fall silent, thinking about Clint's warning. How am I supposed to guard myself, when I don't even know what myself is? I feel like a massless substance, always changing, shifting, like air. I don't know what my true form is, I don't know what I'm supposed to guard when strange substances come, because I don't know what my original substance was. What if those substances mix into mine and create a monstrous chemical reaction that will destroy anything in its path?


A few hours later, I find myself in a shitty motel room in the outskirts of Aleppo, Syria.

Thump.

My duffle falls to the floor and causes a mushroom cloud of dust to erupt. I sigh and resign myself to my fate.

"What did you expect, five star hotel in Venice?" Clint asks and he walks through the door.

I look around the dingy room. I can see dust motes through the grimy windows and the cabinets are sagging and splintered on their hinges. The furniture stuffing is hanging out of the tattered upholstery and there are stains all over the room that I really don't want to know how they got there.

"Why don't we just stay in a cave like our prehistoric ancestors did?" I shoot back. "I'd assume it would be more sanitary."

I flop myself down on the couch, and immediately regret it when something moves in the cushions. Clint is already pulling equipment out of his duffel. He begins to set up his laptop. "We'll be setting up surveillance here. We received information that a well-known drug trafficking band is passing a load of cargo through a by-road somewhere here. Our mission is to locate," he inserts a flash drive into his laptop with a click, "and destroy all targets."

"Whoa, whoa," I stand up. "All targets? What does that mean?"

"It means," he turns to me, "that we are driving this cartel so deep into the ground it will never be able to crawl back and regenerate itself."

"How many targets is that?" I ask a little faintly.

"No idea," he responds grimly. "Depends on how many shipments are leaving and how big the base is."

"Annnnd, we have no intel on this because?" I ask, in a 'duh' voice. I can tell I'm starting to get on Clint's nerves.

"Because we don't. We have what we're given and that's it. We're expected to fix the problem with what we've got." His sharp eyes flick to mine. "So, Matheson, can you fix the problem?"

A moment of silence.

I grab my duffle and start setting up my own equipment. Damn right I'm gonna solve the problem.


Forty-eight hours and a lot of caffeine later, I'm still sitting in the ratty motel room with my headset on, listening for chatter and intercepting any and all messages I can get my hands on in the region. The only sound is my constant typing and the static-y voices in my ears. There's been nothing. Absolutely nothing. The most interesting thing that's happened is a woman found her husband was cheating on her and called him some very foul words over the phone.

I ask myself again why I'm doing this. Because I've been assigned. Simple as that. It's always simple, until I start to think why. I don't have any emotional connection with these people. None at all. All my life it's been me setting all my resources to self-preservation, but now? I'm digging into other peoples' lives (criminals, to be precise. And I was on their side of the line not too long ago) for no apparent reason other than their downfall.

These are bad people.

These are bad people.

These are bad people.

I chant as I work. When you are doing the same thing over and over again for forty-eight hours, you start to just go on autopilot. And when you start to go on autopilot, you start doubting your decision.

But how do I know they're bad people? How do I know they really are bad people, despite their actions? I'm reading everything off a file, and making decisions on whose life to take by what's been printed on paper.

Name: Unkown

Alias: Masteria

Status: Head of drug cartel located in northeast Syria, mostly known as an export from Aleppo.

D.O.B.: 15th August, 1965

Background: Traveled to the United States in early childhood. Was deported in 1983 for dealings in illegal substances that ended in a charge of involuntary manslaughter.

Parents: unknown.

Children: One child, male, approximately early twenties.

And that's it. A very narrow file, other than his alleged drug dealings and supposed recent activity, which deals with more drug dealings. Yes, he's probably just your everyday deadbeat using substances that harm other people for his own wealth.

But.

NO! NO MORE BUT'S. That time is OVER. I'm doing this for my own survival. That's why.

Then what makes you different from him? Taking down others for your own gain?

It's different because I'm on the right side of the law this time.

What is the right side of the law? Is there a right side of the law? You, of all people, should know it's never that black and white.

I don't have time for this.

Suddenly, something catches my attention. "Where is the blackbird dropping the coin?"

"Clint!" I call, scrabbling for a pen and paper. "Listen to this!"

"In the mountain pass exactly three weeks from the party."

The words are all slow and deliberate. Well rehearsed.

"What are the details of the party?"

"It takes place at Abbassiyeen in the palace at the time of the Eid al Adha."

And that's it. I finish scribbling it down and look up to find Clint with a look of concentration on his face as he listens for more chatter, but there's nothing. "'The time of Eid al Adha.' What the hell is that?"

"It's a festival starting January 31st, a week from now," he lists off quickly. "That's the time. We need the place. Is there anything in the message?"

"Bet your ass on it." I respond, typing furiously. I spin my laptop around to face him. "Abbassiyeen is a street where all the people who shouldn't be rich in this third world country are exceedingly so."

"Brilliant," he grins. "Let's go."


We stand on a building adjacent to that of our intended target's. Its whitewashed walls rise above the sand of the desert like an oasis. The gate seems to be barricaded like a goddamned missile bunker. I can barely see over its twenty foot walls, and inside is the place where bad people do bad things in very nice suits. The grounds are perfectly groomed with a rainbow of vibrant tropical flowers growing in pots against the lush of the shady palm trees. I think I can catch a glimpse of the glistening coolness of a pool.

"Damn, you gotta hand it to him. He's done amazingly for himself," I remark with my face buried in some binoculars.

"That's why there are so many people in this business," Clint responds. Both of us are sweating under the harsh sun and the heat reflected off the cement roof we are uncomfortably lying on.

"What!? No! I thought they all wanted to be like us. Sweating their asses off in some God forsaken stakeout in the Middle East."

I can't see his eyes behind the binoculars, but I have a huge suspicion they are rolling.

"Well, we've staked out this place, and I think we can say there are security cameras on every square inch, along with metal detectors, bugs, and laser scans and the entire Nation Guard. I can safely presume you are on the same page as me when I say we are not breaking into this place easily, even if we wanted to."

"Oh, we're breaking in," he lowers his binoculars. He is dead serious.

"Why? We already know when they are shipping the next batch of whatever, so we can just sabotage 'em then."

"Because even SHIELD can't bomb a whole cartload of human beings without concrete evidence. You should know that, Keira," there is an agonizingly patronizing and chiding tone in his voice.

"Right," I pull my eyes from the binoculars and switch my tone to deathly seriousness, "I would know because that's just the organization that kidnapped me and had absolutely no liability to any 'law.' Which I think is a joke, anyway." I turn back to my stakeout.

At first I think Clint is going to respond. To try and argue me out of my opinion, but instead all he says is, "well, we'll just have to see, won't me?" A short pause. "We're going to the party."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Definitely not. There has got to be evidence in there, and if not than a lead to where the evidence is. We're going undercover."

"Brilliant. Just one question. How are we going to sneak in when there's a full scale party going and I have a feeling this possessive drug lord isn't going to just let anyone into his lair of secrets."

"We're going to get an invitation."

"An invitation? Let me guess, you know some people in the area?"

"Hey, when you get into the business of international work, you'll make some friends too."


Three days later, Clint and I are sitting in an outdoor seating restaurant, waiting for our mystery drug lord. This is one of the busiest parts of the town. Venders call out their goods in Arabic from across the street. A lot of people dressed in the cultural robes and a couple of European tourists all hustle by.

I pick at my salad, too nervous to really eat anything. Clint just sits with his hands clasped behind his head, face tilted towards the sun, and shades pulled secretively over his eyes, looking as cool as someone from a Bond movie. We are currently waiting for communication with the 'Masteria,' as he likes to be called. I keep my usual chatter to a minimum, and try not to start every time someone passes by our table.

"Relax, Keira. You're as tense as a cat at a mouse hole." He laughs. I've never seen him this relaxed. I suppose being in the field gives him something to do, something to be.

"In this case, that's not far from the truth. Except I'm just not sure if the mouse is larger than the cat," I shoot back as I twist around and scan the crowd for any sign of a mysterious character.

"Isn't that the truth," a smooth voice comes behind me. I close my eyes and will myself not to jump out of my skin. I turn around normally and find a man sitting across the table from us. He's nothing like I expected. Obviously American, early twenties at best, dark shades over his eyes (just like Hawkeye) and a fitted suit. His hair is attractively tousled and styled. His features are symmetrical, serious, and young, but I can't get too much of a read on him as his eyes are hidden from sight. "Some are blind to when they've, what is the expression? 'Bitten off more than they can chew.'"

"You're the Masteria?" I ask, loftily.

He inclines his head towards me. "I am the Masteria's correspondent, of sorts."

I don't respond this time, but let my gaze flicker over him appraisingly. His mouth twist into a smirk. I scoff, roll my eyes, and look away.

"As you know," Clint intervenes, "I want to do business with the Masteria. I was hoping we could come to an agreement."

"And who's she?" His shaded eyes still haven't left me.

"A business partner," Clint lies smoothly.

"You seem a bit young to be in the business." I could swear he's mocking me.

I quirk and eyebrow, "so do you."

His lips pull back from his perfect, white teeth. "Touché," he turns back to Clint, "the Masteria likes to know who he is doing business with. You understand. There have been more CIA hounds on his tale lately."

"CIA?" I cut across Clint, who was obviously about to speak. He shoots me a dirty look. "If the Masteria is letting things… slip, I don't think either me or my business partner want to be close when the blood hounds close for the hunt."

"I can assure you," his tone is clipped and professional, "the Masteria takes the utmost care in the dealings of our business. Sensitive information is treated well. However, I understand you are the acquaintance of an old partner of the Masteria's?"

"Yes, Kirkaroff Volskarov," Clint responds.

The man's attitude changes almost immediately. The professionalism is still apparent, but his relaxes minutely and a small smile plays at his lips. "Ah, that changes things. I can assure you, you have the utmost importance of the Masteria's. In fact, he told me that if this was indeed the case to relay this information to you." He leans forward secretively. I lean away and am tempted to curl my lip in disgust, but Clint leans forward as well, acting as if he is thoroughly engrossed. "The Masteria is having a little party with his most trusted and… wealthy customers. He would like me to personally invite you to come, if you are willing, of course."

"Yes, I believe we should be able to make it. Extend our deepest thanks to the Masteria. I wish to become better acquainted with him in the near future," Clint responds. I swear, this man can put the most convincing man-who-just-made-a-great-business-deal-and-is-scheming-for-the-future face on like it's nothing.

"Wonderful, I look forward to seeing you soon," the man says with a grin. I can feel his shaded eyes lingering on me. I pointedly examine a passing vender with avid interest. With a haughty straightening of his suit-button, he melts into the crowd.

"That vile, loathly, stuck-up, spherical bastard," I grit my teeth.

Barton looks incredibly pleased with himself and doesn't seem to be paying me much attention. "Spherical?"

"It means— "

"I told you we'd get an invite."

"Well, congrats. I say, you never cease to blow me away with your brilliance, nor do you cease to baffle me with your bullshit." I joke.

He grins. "Are you ready some elbows with some very bad people?"

On queue, we both stand up. I drop a tip on the table and pull on some shades of my own, feeling very 007. "That's what I signed up for, isn't it?"