Special thanks to the folks over at The Beta Branch for going over the story with a fine tooth comb, and all the readers who have stayed with the story for so long. You guys are awesome!
Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended.
Clint found himself outside a farmhouse, surrounded by tall, unkempt grass. A dilapidated barn stood nearby, its red paint faded into a dull brown. A car sat abandoned and in pieces, an unfinished project left to rust in the front yard.
He frowned as he picked up a piece of dark brown glass from the hood of the ruined vehicle. It looked like a shard from a beer bottle; more small piles formed a line along the metal. Clint remembered why it was familiar now – it was one of Dad's many empty beer bottles that Barney had used for target practice.
His brother had tried so hard to distract him from his anger. Clint had always had a problem holding his temper, especially when he had grown old enough to realize that their father's behavior wasn't normal; most kids at school didn't have problems "falling down the stairs" or have their parents bribe the emergency room staff to omit personal information to avoid social services. The older Clint got, the harder it was to resist the urge to fight back, until his defiance had gotten him further beatings.
Most people who knew about his childhood thought it was Jacques and Buck who had taught him to focus and channel that anger, but in reality, the first person who had given him any useful advice was Barney. His brother had taught him how to focus in order to break bottles with a nickel, and had been the first to teach him how to throw a punch instead of receive one. The older boy had truly been a big brother in every way.
Shouts rang out from within the house. With a scowl, he moved quickly, dropping the piece of glass and climbing the stairs two at a time. He opened the front door, finding himself looking into an empty room. Looking around, he found no signs of life.
The living room was exactly as he remembered, complete with an old blood-stain on the hardwood floor that had never really come out, no matter how hard Ma had scrubbed. He had been six years old the day his father had come home drunk, again. The puppy had been a gift from their neighbor; he wondered if the day his father had killed it was when he had truly started hating the man.
That day was the day he had started to hit back.
"Stupid, worthless little runt," a familiar voice slurred from behind him. "Cost me three hunner' dollars ta make that orderly shut his mouth, you god-damned pissant. 'Anonymous patient'… I oughta take that money outta yer hide!"
Clint turned around, his eyes widening. Harold Barton glared at him, hate filling his eyes. The older man stumbled, lurching towards him as the archer backed away reflexively. His back finally hit a wall, leaving him nowhere else to go.
Harold gripped his shirt, twisting it and pulling the stunned archer towards him. Clint winced as the smell of whiskey overwhelmed his nostrils, and he struggled not to vomit.
"Where's your bitch mama now, huh? Not here to coddle you any more, is she, you little bastard!" his father taunted smugly. "She musta finally realized just how much've a pain in the ass you are. Yer not worth the trouble!"
"No," Clint whispered, trying in vain to pry his father's iron grip away from his shirt. Harold had been a butcher, with a heavy build from years of shifting and moving livestock carcasses; while Clint was no slouch in the upper body strength department, his father seemed to be immovable.
"I'm gonna let ya in onna little secret, m'boy," Harold slurred. "We never wanted you- too much money, I tol' her, but that stupid woman went an' popped ya out anyway. She knows better now – she knows you'll turn out bad. Turn out like me!"
Clint's heart sank as each threat and taunt cut him to the bone. He shivered as he slid to the floor, trying to back himself as far into the corner as he could go. "I-I'm not like you. I can't be…"
"You got bad blood, boy – bad blood! I tol' yer mama we shoulda got rid of ya before you started causin' trouble!"
A miffed-sounding gasp from behind his doppelganger caused them both to pause. Harold turned slightly. Both were unprepared for what happened next.
"Hey, Clint – it's me, uh, Bruce. They say talking to people like this is, ah, therapeutic. I guess it is, sort of, since, um. Look, it helps me, okay? Our little chats always have, you know? I know I don't say much about it, but it's…easier to know someone else knows what I went through. As a kid. Oh, shit - Nurse!"
"He's hypertensive - pulse rate's too high! Get the doctor!"
"Get the dog out of here before he hurts someone!"
"I'm trying - easy, boy. Let's let them do their job."
CLAAANNG.
Harold's face whipped around as it was struck with what looked like a skillet. He staggered back, falling against the wall. Holding his face, he cursed at his attacker.
"You're honestly gonna let him talk to ya like that, sweetie?" the woman said, turning to Clint. His eyes lit up. "That's not the Clint Barton I know."
"Mama Gia?" he asked, his voice filled with hope. In a rare display of affection, he stood and darted forward, embracing her in a tight hug. "It's you, Mama Gia – it's really you."
She patted him gently, like she always had when she had been alive, running a hand in circles comfortingly. "Of course it's me, you silly boy. Who else is gonna look after you here?"
"Still hiding behind women's skirts, are you?" The other man sneered at him, giggling drunkenly. "You were always weak, you good fer nothin'…"
"Oh. You," she commented, giving him a look of disdain. Mama Gia turned back to Clint. She brought the skillet up in a backhand, forcing the man back. "What kinda papa are you, you son of a bitch! Sayin' somethin' like that to your own flesh and blood – shame on you!"
The men gaped at her speechless.
She turned to Clint, smiling sadly. "Clint, you need to face this head-on. Don't run from this asshole anymore. You can't let him haunt you anymore."
"I…I want to," Clint replied quietly. "He's so strong –"
She pinched his cheek. "So are you, honey – so are you. I never woulda let you marry my Laura if you weren't worth it. Don't doubt yourself so much. Do I need to get the newspaper again?"
It had been a running joke between them; there were some social niceties that he hadn't been aware of, and after failing to take her subtle hints, the woman had begun rolling up the nearest magazine or newspaper and lightly tapping him on the nose or forehead when he messed things up. At least it wasn't a ruler.
Memories flashed by, of his meeting with her family for the first time. He remembered asking her brother for permission to date Laura, her sisters giving him an approving nod, and encouragements from Laura when he told her he was taking her advice about going to college. More importantly, he remembered his brother-in-law Phil's smile of pride right before telling Clint he'd be damn proud to have him marry his sister.
Clint straightened, looking the shorter woman in the eye. He kissed her on the forehead. "Thanks, Mama."
"You…bitch!" Harold screeched, holding his jaw. He stepped forward. "Gonna teach you some respect –"
"Don't you ever speak to her that way," Clint snarled. He gave his father an icy glare.
He turned, intercepting the drunken man's lunge. A large butcher's knife had appeared in the other man's hand, much like the one his father had used to kill his dog when he was six. Clint tightened his grip, watching the other man flinch.
"I'm not afraid of you," Clint told him softly. "I'm not afraid of you anymore. I'm not you. I never was, and I never will be. I'm not you!"
Harold's confident sneer began to falter. Clint squeezed harder, forcing the man to drop his knife. He shoved the other man, who slammed into the wall and fell to the floor.
Clint looked down at him with a cold expression. "You can't hurt me anymore."
With those words, the man slowly vanished, fading into a dark mist. Clint turned around, looking for his mother-in-law. She was nowhere to be found. "Mama Gia?"
"We've got him stabilized for now. Keep monitoring – I want to know the next time he has another episode. We may need to consider putting him on something to bring the heart rate under control."
"Hey, Clint. It's me – Phil. Kathleen's here too. We'll be with you every step of the way on this."
"Come back to us, Clint. Maggie's already upset that you missed her birthday party. She almost convinced us not to have it since you couldn't be there, but we found that old hat you left in the room the last time you were here and put it on Arrow. We told her you were there in spirit!"
He frowned when he found himself in an old warehouse, his hand cuffed to a boiler pipe. Blood flowed from a wound in his leg where Barney had shot him. His older brother scowled at him from behind the pistol pointed at Clint's head.
"Ungrateful little bastard," Barney growled. "After everything I taught you…I can't believe you'd piss on everything that I've done for you and throw your lot in with them?"
"What are you talking about?" Clint replied with a stricken expression.
Barney motioned with the gun towards a large stack of crates. "Them! You stupid idiot. You were supposed to stay where you were, in your nice, comfy little life with the rest of the freaks. What the hell were you thinking?"
"It wasn't me," Clint argued, yanking on the cuff. "You were the one that jumped into bed with Santori. You shot me…you shot me and left me in the warehouse before you fucking blew it up, you ass!"
He remembered it now. Barney had left the circus, intending on joining the military, and had left before Clint could make it to the bus to follow him. He had tried finding his older brother after he had joined the Army himself, only to find that Barney had already mustered out and vanished. Each attempt to track him down ended with the older Barton brother slipping through the cracks.
Years later, Clint had infiltrated a gun-runner's crew, and run into his brother during a deal that turned out to be a double-cross. Barney had cornered him while the head honchos arguing about the payment details. Before Clint knew what was happening, his brother had shot him twice in the leg, gagged him, and cuffed him to the pipe before tying a piece of cloth around the wound in a makeshift bandage.
Clint had been confused by his brother's rough first-aid attempt, as the warehouse blew up shortly afterwards. He never did find out who had started the gunfight, but he could only figure that Barney's actions had been a strange attempt to either kill him, or save him. He hadn't even had a chance to talk to Barney.
After that little incident, Clint finally got the hint: his attempts at finding his brother weren't welcome.
"God, I hate you so much, you little pain in the ass!" Barney cried out, stomping forward in his rant until he was next to the archer. He brought his leg back and kicked Clint in the area of the wound. "Why do you keep doing this? Why can't you just…just…we were brothers, Clint! Don't you know anything about family loyalty?"
"You were supposed…" Kick. "To stick." Kick. "With Buck. You were supposed." Kick. "To keep your head down and wait for me."
"Son of a bitch! What the hell is wrong with you?" Clint cried, staring at Barney incredulously. "You were the one that didn't wait. You left me behind! I got to the bus station, but you just left!"
Barney remained silent, scowling at him.
"Why…why didn't you wait?" Clint cried out, begging for an answer. "I always followed you. Everywhere – you said family sticks together, no matter what. So why did you leave me alone? Why the hell did you just shoot me - brothers don't shoot each other, damn it!"
"Damn it – his right leg is trembling. Where the hell did this bruise come from? Doctor, look – there's another one on his wrist."
"Hello, Clint. It's Kathleen again. I brought some work with me; they're trying something new with remote access, so I can stay here during the daytime while your friends are at work. I'll be right here…"
"Ow! Pepper, don't do that. Jarvis, tell her not to sneak up on me like that – it'll break my concentration. Which movie to you think he'll like? Maybe some sound'll bring him out of it. Hm – now that's an idea. Clint, if you don't wake up, I swear I'll have Jarvis play nothing but Teletubbies and Barney. All day, around the clock. No, Dummy – put that down. I mean it!"
"Yeesh, that guy's a bit on the slow side, isn't he?" another voice cut in. "Eh – don't worry about him. That meathead doesn't know what he's talking about."
Clint looked down to find himself outside of a shop front, sitting on a bench and holding a large slice of pepperoni pizza in his hand. How he had gotten to Brooklyn, of all places, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Realizing where he was, Clint basked in the heavenly smell of freshly baked dough, garlic, and various other Italian spices.
"Something wrong with the pie?"
He looked to his right and smiled as he found Phil sitting next to him. His brother-in-law was back in his patrol uniform; the black cloth was pristine, without a speck of dirt on it. Phil's badge shone brightly in the sunlight.
Clint smiled. He had lost one brother, but through the course of life had gained another one. Phil, Mama Gia and Laura had helped show him the true meaning of family – that love didn't require blood to be real and unmoving. While they had their ups and downs, made mistakes, and could be a pain in the ass at times, it was love and loyalty that tied you together, not fear or desperation.
It helped that Phil had never tried to shoot him, either.
"Look, Clint," Phil continued, picking a rogue mushroom off of his slice and flicking it into a nearby trash can, "I know he's your blood and all, but Barney's kind of a dick."
Clint let out a harsh laugh. "Yeah. He is, isn't he?"
"This has gotta be tough for you, listening to that bullshit," Phil continued, watching Clint intensely. "But just remember – he left you. Barney's the one that gave up on ya, pal. Not the other way around."
A memory flashed, this time of the bus station, and Barney leaving. He knew that it was mostly his fault for leaving Carson's too late, but still – he had been a kid. The idea that his big brother had given up on him that easily had hurt. Clint had followed him everywhere else – from the orphanage, to the circus…why hadn't his brother trusted him to follow him then?
"He was jealous," Phil continued. "You know that, right? He took care of you for so long, and got stuck on the sideline when Jacques decided to train you. Leaving…that was him gettin' away from being in your shadow. For once, he could be Barney – the brother in charge of things again, and not 'Clint's older brother.' The sad thing is, by the time he probably realized what he gave up, it was too late to turn things around."
Clint stared mournfully at his pizza. "You really think he regretted it? Leaving like he did?"
"Sure he did. Deep down, once you get past the anger and jealousy, you'll always be his little brother."
"Yeah. Maybe. I guess I do know that." Clint sat back, letting his head fall back gently against the brightly painted window. "You know, if we were to ever meet again, I still hope that we can make things right between us. Does that make me an idiot?"
"He's family, brother. It's never too much to hope." Phil snorted. "Still doesn't mean I'm not gonna kick his ass if we ever meet in a dark alley. Jimmy and Terry'll help."
Clint laughed, giving the other man a playful fist-bump. He had missed these lunchtime chats. As he finished his slice and wiped his hands with the stained napkin, he smiled contentedly.
"Don't worry. Barney may have gone off on his own, but you always got us, you know," his brother-in-law continued, wiping his hands on a napkin before checking his watch. "Aw crap. Sorry Clint – my break's up."
"He's stabilizing again. The bruises look faded already. Can someone please get Thor in here to explain just what the hell is going on?"
"Don't freak out or anything, but they're going to have to, uh, put a tube in. Sorry."
"Well, if that doesn't wake him up, nothing will. Mmm – beef stroganoff. Yum."
"Tony – you are such an ass."
Clint looked over, finding himself no longer on the bench. An antiseptic smell lingered in his nostrils while he felt the cold metal of an exam table beneath him. He looked around the room, finding himself in one of the clinic rooms at the Gallicus station. Looking down, he found himself dressed in the dark grey fatigues he had worn on the day his life and Army career had been ripped to shreds.
"Hunting us down was a little excessive, you know," a voice hissed. Turning around, he spotted Dr. Romero, one of Dr. Mellarne's minions who had given his team the supposed penicillin shot for the sudden outbreak of "meningitis."
Clint leapt off the table, drawing his side-arm. The doctor sneered, blood dripping from the hole in his temple as he held up a syringe. "I had a wife and children. Who knows what happened to them after you murdered me?"
The dead man lurched, making room for another bleeding figure. More joined them, forming a crowd of victims, each glaring at him accusingly. They swayed in unison, much like the infected had back on Gallicus when they milled about aimlessly once they had run out of victims.
They began to press forward, backing him into a corner. There was no window to the outside, no vent grates, no other alternative but to stand there and listen to the cries of the dead. His hands shook with each accusation, demanding justice for their murders. He understood that much; it had been murder, or call it assassination for that matter, but he had hunted them all down. He had pulled the trigger, arranged the "accident" or fired each arrow himself.
Clint looked again as he aimed his pistol at the lurching crowd, finding his hands stained a dark red.
This symbolism shit was really getting on his nerves. He didn't need a fucking dream to tell him his hands were dripping with the blood of the lives he had taken, and those he had failed. The ledger, as Natasha had taken to calling it lately. He wondered if his would ever balance out.
"Why'd you do it, Frankie?" another voice cried, drowning out the rest. A soldier stood in front of him, dressed in grey fatigues, just like the ones Clint wore. No insignias or ranks adorned his chest, but the archer could recognize one of his Delta brothers anywhere. "We were a team, man. Brothers in arms. I can understand you shooting those fuckers, but what about us?"
Clint's hands trembled, and he flattened himself against the wall as several infected staggered down the corridor. They were dressed in varying shades of fatigues, with several wearing the same uniform as the one who had spoken. He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself at a loss for words.
"You got the same shit we did, so why did you get to live and we didn't?" the soldier asked, his eyes full of accusation and betrayal. "What made you so fucking special, huh?"
Peters. Filch. Meronello. Sikorsky. Sample. Vero. He recognized them all, despite their desiccated appearances. They repeated their questions, each glaring at him menacingly as they began to move forward.
He turned and fled.
"He's going tachycardic again!"
"Damn it, he's seizing. Help me turn him on his side. Page the doctor!"
"Hold him down!"
"Did…did the dog just destroy the spare heart monitor? I hope the warranty still covers it…"
"What the hell? Pulse is dropping now. He's going into v-fib - nurse, hand me the defibrillator!"
"Clear!"
Clint ran through hallway after hallway, cursing as each one spun back on itself and opened up into one of the previous areas that he had just left, with his pursuers giving chase. A rattling from above drew his attention. Glancing up, he looked into the eyes of two children. The twins. They looked down, beckoning at him urgently.
"You can't escape it, Barton!"
"Just give it up already – your ledger will finally be clear!"
"Come back! Stay with us – it's where you belong!"
Another voice cut through the mad cacophony. "What the fuck are you waitin' for, Frankie? Get your redneck ass up here!"
Flynn, Clint remembered. Without any further hesitation, he fell into a crouch, holstering his pistol in a smooth movement. Springing up at an angle, he kicked off of one wall, then the other and pulled himself up into the ductwork.
He replaced the ceiling tile, sighing in relief as the voices below fell silent. Looking up, he found himself in the small seafood restaurant where he had first found the boys on Gallicus. They had been cornered by the mascot, who had been dressed in the pirate uniform that was slightly more detailed than the rest of the staff. They sat in a booth, quietly wrestling over the last fish stick.
"Thought you were a goner, man," Flynn told him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as the archer sat down. "I swear those ones are uglier than the first batch."
Clint watched them quietly, unsure of how to respond. They looked happy. Was this truly peace after death? If so, he was thinking they'd gotten gypped – there were no fluffy rainbows or puppies and kittens here, or whatever you were supposed to see in Heaven.
"What's the matter?" Flynn passed him a glass of water. At least, he hoped it was water. "You don't look so good, man."
"H-how are you here?" Clint stammered. "You died. I couldn't…"
"Just come right out and say it, Frankie. Nothin' ever stopped you before."
"This…this is some kind of test. It's a freaking test. Flynn, I'm sorry - I couldn't save you," the archer admitted. His voice began to tremble. "I promised to get you out. All of you. I tried… oh, God, I tried -"
The twins looked at each other and nodded. One slid under the table while the other slipped out of the booth. Both boys reached over moved to his side, hugging him as tightly as their four-year old bodies could.
"It's okay, Sergeant Frankie!" one twin said, his voice cheerful.
"We know you tried," the other said. "Mommy said that's what counts in the end!"
Flynn chuckled in amusement as Clint returned the hug. They were one of his worst failures – finding the casualty report had dashed any hope that he had kept his promise to protect them. It was bad enough that he had failed his fellow soldiers as they fell to the Project Red virus or the infected one by one. The boys had been innocent and unable to defend themselves; it was then that he had first truly begun to doubt himself.
The pilot had been his first real friend. After meeting in boot camp, Flynn had gone through Ranger School with him until he decided to become a pilot, but the change in rank hadn't stopped him from trying to help Clint recover what he had missed from his odd childhood. He had introduced Clint to simple things such as playing catch, jumping on the bed, food fights, pranks, and more importantly, the glory that was pizza.
More importantly, Flynn had taught him how to have fun. There were times that you needed to enjoy the little things in life. How could he have forgotten that lesson?
"It's me, Steve. Hooch and the guys, well, they didn't really get to say goodbye after we brought you home. They had to get back to base to report in, but they left me some recordings for you. Turns out you're about as popular with their snipers as I am with the other troops. Well, here goes nothing. Hey, Bruce – how do you turn this thing on again?"
"Hey, Frankie – it's Hooch. You still owe me twenty bucks, by the way. I'm gonna collect it once yer up and about. That's twenty years of interest, hoss! Now, when they tol' us you boys were KIA, we had to clear your shit out of the barracks, and they gave yours to the VA since ya didn't list any kin. Oh, I kept your pictures though. Don't know why, but I did – I'll mail 'em to ya or drop 'em by once I get back to the house. They might be a little dusty though. Don't go dyin' on us again, ya idjit."
"I know we've never met, sir, but I…I'm kind of a fan. I'm still trying to break your record - any advice would be totally awesome."
"Get well soon, Sergeant Barton. We're all rooting for you here."
"Do you think it's helping, Natasha? I've played them all, but I'm not sure if it's doing anything."
"He needs to hear it, Steve. Keep playing the recordings."
"You know that Fury lies, right?" Flynn chided, tracing the edge of his glass with a finger. "He lied to all of us. You didn't fail, Clint – we've been here all along."
One of the boys looked up, frowning as he noticed a smudge of ketchup on his brother's face. He reached over and ran a finger through it, smearing it in the same spot on his cheek. "We gotta match, see? It's ta fool the monsters."
"They think there's only one, but we fooled 'em good, Sergeant Frankie!" the other twin finished proudly, puffing his chest out.
He had forgotten how cute the little rugrats had been. They hadn't told him their names; in the heat of the battle and escape, it had never seemed to matter. Both of boys had followed him to the end, trusting him to get them out alive. He had promised to save them from the monsters.
"You know what your boss is capable of," his old friend continued. "Is lying to you about whether we lived or died really that much of a stretch?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Glad you're seeing reason. That's why you need to live, man. Don't give up now when you've got answers out there, waitin' to be found. He owes you the truth."
Clint nodded numbly. Fury lied; that's what spies and spymasters do. They lie, and they trick – all in the name of the greater good. Flynn was right. He wasn't going to get any answers if he was stuck here.
Ted, the Twin from Strike Team Mike, had hinted that they had wanted to discuss something before it all went to hell. Clint had started to suspect something after the other one, Jed, hadn't fallen victim to the bite he had received down in the sub-levels of the Rockhurst facility. That, coupled with their jittery behavior and some of their eccentricities had led him to dare hope that the little rugrats had survived after all.
"If they're alive, I am too," Flynn reasoned, as if reading his mind. "I did promise to look after 'em if something happened to you, after all. You really think I'd leave the leeches behind?"
Flynn had been skeptical about the boys, unsure if they would drag them down in their escape or not, but he had fought as hard as Clint had to get them to one of the only remaining helicopters on the island. The pilot had likened them to lampreys, after their tendency to cling to Clint whenever they stopped to rest. Clint hadn't minded until they found the need to run again - he knew what it was like to be that young and afraid for his life.
"I think…" Clint started, his words trailing off as he fixed his friend with a hard look.
Flynn beckoned at him to continue, cupping a hand to his ear.
"I think," he continued slowly. "Fury owes me one hell of an explanation."
"Now, that's more like it, my man," Flynn exclaimed, slapping his hand down on the table for emphasis as he grinned. "No more of this 'woe is me' bullshit."
"He's stabilizing. So far, no seizures for twenty four hours. If we can keep it that way, I think we'll be in the clear, Agent Romanoff."
"It's your pal, Tony – look! I brought you a present."
"Hello Clint, it's Pepper and Natasha. We've brought a couple of westerns for you, and some of your favorite music. You're doing good – no seizures for twelve hours so far! I think Dr. Osterhouse is finally starting to relax."
Clint smiled back. Standing up, he straightened his shirt. As the archer looked back up, he found the scenery had changed. Again.
This time, the area shifted, as if in flux. Every place he had ever been flashed in front of him, pausing occasionally, but always in motion. It was dizzying, and Clint couldn't help but stagger a bit.
"They're all a bunch of idiots, aren't they?" a sarcastic voice commented. "But then again, you've never shown them the real you. Not really."
The archer turned around to see…himself. Clint's own clothing had changed back to the same outfit he had worn at Pegasus, and matched what his doppelganger wore: black tactical pants, black shirt, and tactical vest. His jacket with the SHIELD eagle on his right shoulder hung loosely on his shoulders, the zipper unzipped.
The doppelganger leaned against the weathered yellow railing where Natasha had brought him back to himself on the Helicarrier. Clint looked down, running a hand along the chipped paint. He looked back up at his double with a frown.
"They just don't get it, do they?" the other Clint continued. "The fact that you don't belong with them. They're heroes, after all. Bona fide super-heroes."
"What are you playing at?" Clint asked his double, keeping a wary eye on him.
"Wow – they've really suckered you into it too, haven't they? You're no hero," the other Clint replied with a laugh. He hopped up, seating himself on the railing and slowly swinging his legs in the free space beneath it. "You're just the guy with the bow, remember? Killing people is the one thing you've truly excelled at. Well, that and blowing shit up. "
"There's no way I'm gonna have an argument with myself," Clint replied sourly. He turned to leave, heading towards the end of the passageway.
"Have you told them about your contingency plans? How you've come up with potential ways to kill each and every one of them? Even Natasha? Or wait- Loki came up with that one for you."
"Shut up."
"Steve – well, he's easy. Shot to the head'll kill anyone. Maybe use a Tankbuster for good measure – there's only so much he can heal."
"We are not having this conversation."
"Tony? Messing with the arc reactor would do it, but that's too obvious. Though it would get a good price on the black market. He's better about his drinking now, but a little bit of chemical intervention the next time he goes on a bender, and well, one should never drink and drive after all. Shit – he falls off the wagon again, he'll do the job for you."
Clint put his hands over his ears, clenching his eyes shut in an effort to ignore his double.
"Thor's a bit more complicated. You've still got that special arrow that Loki gave you the metal for, right? Shot to the heart, or maybe the eyeball –"
"Just stop it."
"Bruce, well…he's really complicated. The Destroyer gun seems to do well enough. Recharge rate's a bitch though."
"I said shut the hell up!" Clint roared, opening his eyes to find himself facing the other Clint. Their faces were close enough to nearly touch.
"You've even got a plan for good ol' Nick," Other Clint taunted, tapping next to his eye. "One bullet – take out that other eye, like you could've done when you let Loki manhandle your brain. Hot damn – wouldn't that sting!"
He shoved his double away, stalking down the passageway towards the detention level. The other Clint followed, providing a commentary as they moved. Each time Clint tried to catch the other, if only to shake some sense into him, his double slipped right through his fingers.
"Thompson lived, though she's still rehabbing the arm."
"Walker didn't make it. Neither did Petrelli. So much for that bake sale they had planned, eh?"
"Vicer wanted kids. Too bad he'll never get 'em."
Clint flinched with each comment, until they reached the detention level. A large bloodstain was smeared along the wall, dripping downwards where Coulson had slid down after being stabbed through the chest.
"Oh, right – that one was Coulson. The fact that he lived is a freakin' miracle. Don't forget though – he wouldn't have had to face Loki alone if you hadn't gotten zapped." The double displayed the first sign of emotion that wasn't a jeer or a taunt. He turned towards Clint, his eyes accusing. "You were supposed to be there, you know. He wasn't supposed to face that psycho alone."
The other Clint ambled forward, occasionally kicking a piece of debris or shrapnel. "You weren't there. Instead, you were off stealing shit for Selvig, for Loki…you traitor."
"It…wasn't my fault," Clint whispered. "It was Loki, not me. I didn't have a choice –"
"There was always a choice, dummy. You just picked the wrong one," Other Clint sneered. "You ruined things with Barney. Mom and Dad would've probably stayed home that night if you'd been a good little boy, and not pissed the old man off."
Clint backed away from his double, unable to find the words to fight back as his double threw accusation after accusation. The wind blowing up through the gaping hole where the Hulk Cage used to be wasn't enough to drown out the recounting of every failure in his life.
"Laura and the kids…they'd be alive if it wasn't for you. You didn't want to take the damn desk job like she asked – you had to be a fucking hero!" the other man cried out, rage filling his eyes. "Selvig was right."
Clint felt his heels hit the edge of the gaping hole in the floor, his arms wheeling as he tried to keep his balance.
"You destroy everything you touch," the other Clint whispered, right before giving him a hearty shove.
Unable to hold his balance, Clint fell into the maw.
Erik Selvig hated his job sometimes. When he had slipped SHIELD's leash nearly a year ago, he had hoped to never have to deal with the Tesseract again. While Bruce had gone on and on about his disgust that the astrophysicist's findings and research shortly after were so heavily classified, he had bit down the urge to yell at the gamma specialist.
Bruce had never been caught by the Tesseract; he had never been so enamored with an object that it had filled his entire life for a week, causing him to forget about everything else, including eating, sleeping…even showering. It was one thing to become obsessed about your research, but the Tesseract…she had encompassed his entire being.
Erik had nearly hung up on the man when he had called, until he had informed him of Agent Barton's rather unique condition. He hated to admit that he was most likely the only one with enough information to help. The grim-faced SHIELD agents who had escorted him to the remote Army base hadn't done much to alleviate his nervousness; he felt much like he had the first time he had arrived at the PEGASUS facility, where Nick Fury had introduced him to the Tesseract.
The soldiers had kept watch over him as he worked, their faces impassive, but he could almost feel their eyes following his every move. In a way, they reminded him of Agent Barton, back when he had been head of Erik's security detail. The sharp-eyed man had spent hours staring down at both the astrophysicist and the cube, watching and waiting. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, but now… now, the escorts gave him some comfort that they would try to stop him if he were to be enthralled by any new Tesseract energy.
Thankfully, he had been able to move the project to the Tower after they moved Agent Barton. Erik had to admit that the Tower facilities were much more hospitable than the PEGASUS base or the military hospital. Bruce had graciously offered the use of his lab and apartment, both of which were fully equipped. Anything else was apparently a phone call away, courtesy of Tony Stark.
He looked back down at the device in front of him. It was similar to the unit he had helped design to contain the Tesseract after they had recovered it from Loki in order to help return the two Asgardians home. This version was more simplified; instead of containing a cube, it was intended to extract the Tesseract energy from a living creature and contain it long enough for them to figure out what to do with it. With hope, it would allow them to remove the power from Agent Barton without damaging any tissues or sensitive neurons.
Bruce had been ecstatic when he had shown the physicist the rough design. It was exactly what he had been trying to create when he had had his unfortunate lab incident, and if it was successful, they hoped to adapt it to other types of radiation. It could revolutionize radiation cleanup methods and save lives…if he was ever allowed to release his findings.
The astrophysicist rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired. Leaning forward, he caught himself before he could fall, managing to cross his arms and lay his head down. Perhaps it was as good a time as any for that nap.
A hand reached out, gripping onto Clint's forearm and holding tight. Clint looked up, finding himself being held onto by a straining Erik Selvig. He blinked in surprise.
"Are you going to just hang there, or are you going to help me pull you up?" Selvig huffed, grunting as he reached out with his other hand, securing his grip. "Good Lord, you're heavy."
Clint shook his head and reached up with his other hand. He managed to grab hold of the ledge; swinging a leg up, he managed to gain a foothold and scrambled up. The men fell back against the wall, breathing heavily.
"I don't…think it would be wise…to do that again," the astrophysicist wheezed. "I'm too old for this."
The archer let his head fall back against the bulkhead. "Uh…thanks."
After several minutes, they began to catch their breath. Selvig looked around, having never been to the carrier before. With a groan, he pulled himself upwards and began to slowly walk around the room, examining the area.
"This is the strangest dream I've had in a long time," Erik commented, putting his hands on his hips. "One of you is trouble enough, much less two."
Clint gave him a puzzled look. "You…saw him? The other me?"
"Not much – enough to see your doppelganger insult you right before trying to push you through a hole in the floor," Selvig replied sadly. "He was saying some…horrible things, Agent Barton. Things I don't like to think I dreamed up."
"You didn't imagine it," the archer replied, shaking his head. "This is my dream, Doc. My memories, my troubles. Apparently complete with evil twin cliché too."
"He hates you," Selvig commented bluntly, blinking at Clint in surprise. "There's something Freudian in there, I think."
The archer drew his knees up to his chest, remaining silent.
Erik frowned, approaching him. "How could you…hate yourself that much? Please, Agent – tell me you don't believe what you were hearing?"
The physicist sighed as Clint remained silent. Sitting down next to the agent, the scientist seemed to steel himself. He began to open his mouth to speak, stopped, and then started again. "Look, Barton...I wanted to, no – I needed to apologize. I tried to say it before, but I would fumble over the words every time."
"For what?" the archer asked, tilting his head in confusion. He gestured around him at the dull, grey bulkheads. "Doc, you're not responsible for all this."
"No, no, no," the astrophysicist denied with a light chuckle. "I may not get a chance again. I meant that I am sorry for what I said before. The argument we had back at PEGASUS. I…I'm a proud man, Agent Barton, and apologies don't come easy to me. What I said back then was uncalled for."
The archer gave him a skeptical glance. "You seemed pretty sure of your opinions, Doc."
Dr. Selvig's eyes fell. "I was…part of a think tank a long time ago. We were young – rebellious, and dead set on changing the world. Some of our members were a bit…rambunctious, and started dabbling in some dangerous experiments. Needless to say, we were shut down by government agents. Brutally. The organization came in, swept away all the evidence, and my friends disappeared."
"That explains why you hated us so much when we showed up in New Mexico," Clint surmised. He scratched the back of his neck nervously. "Not to mention the whole thing with the Tesseract Project. Sorry for that, I guess. I, uh, didn't like lying. I'm not usually very good at it, and I actually liked being your assistant, you know? We did some cool stuff."
"And that's just the thing," Erik said, sitting up straighter and looking at the agent. "I learned many things in New Mexico, and the Tesseract Project. I learned that gods exist, that I still haven't learned my lesson about messing with things that I shouldn't, and most of all, that not everyone is as they appear to be, Agent Barton. And…not all of you agents are heartless cretins."
Clint let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "Bullshit. We both know the truth. Jack-booted thug, I think you said? That's me in a nutshell. All I do is hurt people…hurt the ones I care about. Everyone who's ever meant anything to me…they die, or somehow wind up trying to kill me. It would have been better if you had just let me fall."
"Don't you dare say that, you stubborn, brutish ass," Erik ordered, slapping Clint's arm lightly. "One thing you proved during the time we spent at PEGASUS was that you don't. Give. Up. You never did, whether it be an atomic conversion or an alien interloper. Don't quit now – not when we're so close."
Clint peeked up over his folded arms, looking at the astrophysicist in surprise.
"Don't look so shocked," Selvig scoffed. "Thor went all the way to Alfheim, of all places. He brought back elves! They've cleansed the virus, using some…some tonic, and it's testing you now. Just don't give up, okay? This test…it's meant for you to decide what you truly want. There's a lot of people that care enough to put things on hold to see you get better. You can't let them down now."
"Elves? They're here?" the archer replied numbly. "As in pointy ears, attitudes…the works?"
"Yes, you dolt – they're real. They'd like to see you shoot your bow, of all things," Selvig replied with a chuckle. "Your family is waiting for you to wake up, your dog is stealing bottles to try to get your attention…and I…I would like it if you'd let me apologize in person, since I'm not sure how long I'll be here."
Clint couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah – I'm getting kinda tired of this place."
"It's settled then!" Selvig replied cheerfully. "Now, no more of this moping around, eh? Time to finish this."
He took the astrophysicist's outstretched hand, smiling for the first time since he had found himself in this hell. "Hell yeah."
Erik snapped awake, barely catching himself before he could fall out of his chair. He let out a deep breath. "What in the God's name was that?"
He stood, dropping the tool that he had fallen asleep holding as if he had been stung. They physicist ran a hand over his face. The dream had been so real. Finding himself in a strange, creepy place had been downright unsettling enough, but why would he dream about Agent Barton, of all people?
Before Erik realized what was happening, he found his feet carrying him out of the lab and towards the elevator. His pace picked up at a jog; entering the car, he pressed the button quickly for the floor that held the Infirmary. Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited for the ding as the elevator announced their arrival.
When he walked out of the door, the astrophysicist quickly dodged a pair of technicians as they were leaving the hallway towards Agent Barton's room, talking amongst themselves. Making his way to the agent's room, he found the doctor on his way out the door, speaking quietly with a nurse as they walked.
Agent Romanoff sat in a chair in the hallway outside, her face pale as she held a large German Shepherd's head in her lap, petting it comfortingly. She glanced every now and then into room, as if unsure whether or not she should enter. The woman gave no indication she had even noticed his approach, though he suspected she had already sized him up and put him in the "non-threatening" category.
Erik paused at the door, and looked back at the agent with hesitation. With her nod, he entered to find a nurse putting away several intimidating pieces of medical equipment and Thor sitting at Agent Barton's bedside. The prince held a thick, worn leather-bound book in his hands, written in Asgardian; shaking his head, the warrior cursed as he flipped through each page.
"He was almost lost to us," Thor said, speaking softly without turning around. "The healer advised that these episodes are getting worse as time goes on. This manual explains our more complicated remedies, but it has no guidance in regards to the seerindo's effects. Here I sit with the power of Asgard and Mjolnir at my fingertips, but none of it is of any use in this sort of fight."
"I think we're all feeling a little useless, Thor," Erik replied, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder as the warrior shut the book with a sigh. "But…I think he's going to be just fine."
Thor looked up at him. "You speak with much more certainty than the rest of us. It has been more than two weeks and he stirs naught but to throw one of his…fits."
"He's a strong one." Erik sat down in another chair, sliding it next to Thor and laying his hands on the armrests. "You know, they say that speaking to a comatose person helps. You've talked to your father during his Odin-sleep, right? Well, go on – try it. It may just make you feel better too."
Thor took a nervous breath. "Hawk, I would normally stay away from the sick rooms as they discomfit me, but…our comrades tell me that speaking to one whilst in a healing slumber is therapeutic. Your body's health flags, and they are concerned that this crucible of the soul will be more than you can bear.
I tell you this, my shield-brother: those who doubt that you will prevail are wrong. We have lived together, fought together, and I do not believe that you would let yourself fall to anything else other than the glory of battle. I am proud to call you my friend and ally.
Misguided as my brother was, he was right about one thing, Hawk. You have heart, and you will not fall to despair so long as I have any say in the matter."
"Clint…you can't give it up just yet. Not when there's some things I need to say, and I'm not gonna say 'em without you being awake. I know it's been hard, but we still need you. I still need you. Coulson's my one good eye, but you're my hand-picked, personal pain in the ass. My recruit, my asset, and my friend.
Your mission isn't over yet – you hear me?"
Standing in front of him was Laura.
"Hey, you," she said, smiling brightly. "Long time no see."
Laura was as beautiful as he remembered; while she hadn't exactly been a supermodel, her looks weren't what he had fallen in love with. She stood dressed in the gown he had bought for their fifth anniversary, a flowing deep forest green that brought out her strawberry-blonde hair and bright, blue eyes.
Clint walked up to her, taking her into his arms and kissing her deeply. He held her tightly. "I never thought I would see you again."
They were standing in the middle of a small park at night, where they had had one of their earlier, more disastrous dates. A white gazebo sat in the corner, strung with Christmas lights and streamers. Music played in the background while Callum, Lewis and Nicole played tag on the nearby lawn.
"It's okay, hon," she soothed, running her hand along his back, much like Mama Gia had. "I'm right here."
They stood there for a while, holding each other and dancing slowly. Finally, she stood back slightly, holding his face in her hands. "You look tired, honey."
"I miss you so much," he said softly.
Laura smiled softly at him, her eyes sympathetic. "I know. We miss you too. But you can't stay, Clint. You know you have to go back."
"Do I have to?" It was quiet here, and peaceful. Laura was here. Did he really need to go back to a world full of strife and conflict? "I like it here. It's nice."
"Don't be such a kid!" Laura scolded, giving him a playful shove. "You know you can't leave them behind."
He looked down at the ground. "It's not like they need me."
"Oh…my…God, Clint. Do we really need to have this discussion again? It's not that they need you – it's that they want you to stay." She rolled her eyes as he spun her slowly, and then dipped her.
He was rewarded by a light giggle, causing him to smile. The grin faded as he continued his earlier reasoning. "I'm getting too old. I can't keep up with them. Damn – even Stark has his suit to keep him going. Me? I'm just…I'm just the guy with the bow."
"Big baby," his wife teased. He felt her wrap her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his back shoulders. "That's not all you bring to the team, and you know it. I just wish you would believe it yourself."
She slowly moved back in front of him, looking into his eyes. "We've gotten over these hurdles before, back when you first teamed up with Natasha, Wanda and Pietro. You learned to work as a team back then, and you'll figure it out this time too. You're more than just the guy with a bow. After all, Cap trusted you to fight with him, right? Doesn't that say something?"
Clint remembered: Steve giving him an appraising look, trusting him at Natasha's nod. The Viaduct, where they had crouched behind a smashed vehicle, peeking over the hood to catch a glimpse of the nearby Chitauri. Cap giving him another look, this time of confidence. "You think you can hold 'em off?"
"Captain – it would be my genuine pleasure."
He remembered Stark, and his faith in Clint's tactical commentary after evading the pursuing Chitauri by locating a tunnel. The inventor had never belittled or underestimated his abilities, even before Clint had been recovered by Natasha. "Good call. What else ya got?"
They had fought side by side as a team that day. While he hadn't been in close combat much once he had been 'airlifted' to the building roof courtesy of Iron Man, they had trusted him to cover them and call out the movement patterns. Cap had trusted him to know where they were needed the most, and it had worked.
Laura was right. He chuckled sheepishly. "You never get tired of proving me wrong. Admit it."
"You know I do."
Clint sighed again. "I'm really gonna do this thing, huh?"
"You wouldn't be Clint Barton if you didn't try, hon," she replied proudly. "That's what I love about you."
"It's hard, you know. Going on without you. Without Callum, Lewis and Nicole. Not a day goes by that I don't miss you. I never meant for you all to get hurt –"
She put a finger up to his lips, hushing him. "I know. Nobody could have predicted it would happen."
"I don't want to go back." He gave her a pleading look. "I don't want to lose you again."
"I know, and I don't want you to go either. I would love to just stay here together, forever. But we both know you'll do the right thing, Clint. And this is different from the last time we parted," Laura countered softly. "This time, we get to say goodbye."
The heartwarming sound of children's laughter drew his attention as the three youngsters raced up to him, hugging him around his midsection.
"Daddy! We missed you!" Lewis said happily.
Nicole hopped excitedly, clutching at his shirt. "Are you gonna stay here with us, Papa?"
Callum, his quiet, eldest son just gripped him tightly, his eyes squeezing shut. Clint knelt down, hugging them all tightly, tears threatening to escape. He had missed them so much.
"Daddy's got to go back, now," he told them, his voice choking up. "There's still a lot of work to be done, okay? Lots of bad guys to catch."
"But…but they're mean!" Nicole's lip quivered, and she threatened him with her patented Puppy-Dog-Stare-Of-Doom, which had turned even Nick Fury into her personal tea party minion. He still had the photo somewhere; the dainty little hat had looked completely out of place on Nick's head, but the smile on her face had been so worth it. "They hurt you, Papa!"
"I know, baby. But my friends might get themselves in trouble if I'm not there to watch their backs," he tried to reason. "Remember, like Auntie Wanda and Uncle Pietro?"
They didn't appear convinced.
He held them tighter. "I know it's tough, and I don't want to leave you munchkins behind…"
"But you're going to," Callum said, watching his father solemnly. He gave Clint a tight smile. "We'll be here, Dad. Family sticks together, right Dad? We'll always be with you, right here."
"Yeah, kiddo," the archer replied with a sad smile as Callum repeated the gesture and words that Clint had used when he was younger, after Lewis had been born. The older Barton child had thought his parents were drifting away from him, but the words had seemed to bring Callum comfort at the time.
Clint stood finally. There was a tugging at his sleeve, and he looked down into Nicole's adoring face. The family embraced for one last farewell.
As they faded, Clint found himself facing another woman, in a wide, open space. The area was white, casting no shadows. She was dressed in a fine gown sewn from gold cloth, with shining blonde ringlets pulled up in an elaborate hairstyle. Nicole surprisingly had remained, clutching at his pants and hiding behind his legs.
"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he stepped fully in front of his little girl.
"Someone who knows what it is to lose that which is most precious. Someone who owes you a debt."
"I don't think we've met," he replied curtly.
"This one knows you more than you know yourself," the woman commented as she gave Nicole a stern look. "More than she should know."
"But he needs me!" the girl cried as she tightened her grip. "I can help!"
"You know better than that, you cheeky girl," the elder scolded gently. "Now, it's time to let him go."
"B-but it's not safe!"
Clint's eyes narrowed. "I don't know who you think you are, ma'am –"
"But it is. I know you are trying to help, but the danger had passed. They are waiting for him. You must release your hold, or I shall have to force you. I would rather not have to damage either of you in the process," the woman in gold scolded, ignoring Clint's glare. "That wouldn't be fair, now would it?"
The child shook her head emphatically.
"Now, I know you are trying to help, and there is honor in that, but you are young, and you must learn more before you try to intervene. To do so without the proper knowledge is reckless, child."
"I-I'm sorry," Nicole muttered, hanging her head. "I didn't know what else to do."
"Wait – what the he…uh, heck is going on here?" Clint asked, mindful of the younger child present as his eyes widened in confusion.
Nicole vanished from behind him. A small violet orb rose from where the girl had stood, floating forward until it reformed into the shape of a young girl. The new child was violet from head to toe, glowing with a radiant purple hue.
"You've done well enough," the woman said, patting the girl's hand softly before looking back up at Clint with a smile. "Please forgive her. She was born by sheer chance, and has not been shown proper behavior. Her actions have been well-intentioned, but a bit reckless."
"Ma'am, I'm not sure I get what you're saying," he countered, his voice taking on an icy tone. "Where's my daughter? What did you do with her?"
"Search your heart. You truly do not sense it?"
Clint's brow furrowed as he concentrated. There was something familiar... "Wait a minute…this feels…like the Tesseract. She's…Nicole?"
"She merely borrowed a form from your memories," the golden woman explained. "One that was familiar to you."
"So..she's not actually Nicole. She's the Tesseract… but I thought the Tesseract was back on Asgard?"
"Not precisely. This one is not the Tesseract that guided you when you were enthralled. The original Tesseract energy forming the connection after you were taken by Loki's weapon was dislodged rather traumatically. The act left a seed behind, which was nurtured when you were exposed again to the same power."
"She's just a baby," he commented softly, struck by realization. "This one's just a newborn, isn't she?"
The woman smiled. "A child desperately in need of guidance. She has not fully formed yet, but what she knows has come from you – from your own instincts and memories. Please realize that it was not the Tesseract that took your will – it merely enhanced Loki's spell. It was a tool, nothing more. Do not hold your fear of it against this youngling, should you interact with her again in the future. "
"You've gotta be kidding me," Clint groused, running a hand over his face. "Stark will never let me hear the end of it."
The woman gave him an amused look.
"So," he drawled, facing her again. "Where do we go from here?"
"Have you found the answers you seek?" She watched him carefully. "Are you ready to rise, and face the waking world once more? Or will you fall into the void as others have before?"
"I'm not," Clint replied, after pondering for a moment. Somehow, this felt like another test. "I'll never be. But...I'll have to be. There are still things I can do. Good things. There are answers to a hell of a lot of questions that I'll never get if I give up now."
"Very well," she replied with a smile. "I shall escort you back into the light."
"What? That's it?" he cried, looking around in alarm as the area brightened.
Light surrounded them. As the light engulfed them both, he blinked out of reflex. To his right, a shrill beep sounded, almost like an alarm. Clint looked around himself in confusion, his eyes slightly blurred from sleep as he found himself in an unfamiliar room – more like an infirmary.
He was back.
Meanwhile, Asgard Palace Secure Vault…
Frigga gently placed the Soul Gem back on its platform, restoring the protective wards. Thankfully, the one reportedly installed in Loki's staff given to him by the Chitauri had been a counterfeit. A very good counterfeit, but still a mere copy. While it had greatly enhanced her son's spell used to enslave the Midgardians, it had been able to do little else.
It was a mere shadow of the real Soul Gem, which until today had sat unused for centuries. While her gifts included the ability to project herself between realms, the gem had allowed her to enter the archer's soul and separate the growing Tesseract shard from him. There was much strife in the Midgardian's short life, much more than one should bear alone.
The archer was stubborn, though, and had weathered each attempt, with each win giving him more and more confidence. She had been unable to directly affect each encounter until the end, and had been fascinated by the ways he had resolved the conflicts within his subconscious. It was no small feat to face your inner demons, much less call upon your better memories and allow them to take form in an effort to assist in the battle.
She prayed that he had understood whatever message his inner self was trying to tell him.
"You should not have interfered." Odin's gruff but regal voice interrupted her thoughts. "The archer may have succeeded without your help."
"I have no regrets, husband. The Tesseract is our responsibility," she reasoned, looking over to the king with an unflinching gaze. "As is what follows in its wake. The youngling would have prevented him from waking, or come to further mischief."
"It belongs here, in the vaults."
"Agreed, but there is plenty of time to retrieve it. For now, let the youngling stay with the archer, albeit in a more harmless form. There is much for it to learn, and it holds little enough power to attract attention."
"Too little power now," Odin replied skeptically. "What of the future? A thing such as a Tesseract can only increase in strength, particularly the more it grows in knowledge. That power cannot fall into the wrong hands."
"When the time is right, it shall find its way home," Frigga soothed. "That much is certain. Let them recover from the separation for now."
He let out a small harrumph, holding out his elbow for her. "I am still not certain why you chose to intervene. This was a test for the archer, and no one else."
"It is as I said before, husband. The presence of a new Tesseract forced my hand," she replied, slipping an arm though and proceeding with him towards the vault door. "A debt was owed, and now it has been repaid."