"The guy who was in the car? He must have dragged himself into the woods." A shrug. "I'll get some of my officers to search the forest, but I'm telling you, lady, with the amount of blood that's here, he's probably dead already."
Natasha scowled as she surveyed the scene. She tuned out of the deputy's explanation, cursing about incompetent police. They were about 40 or so minutes away from Tony's safe house in Isle of Palms, on route 41. This was definitely not a coincidence. Peter had been here.
"Nat!" Clint called from behind a pine tree. She jogged over, her eyes widening as she took in the bloodied ground and burnt seal in the tree. It was only about the size of her palm, but she recognized it and the tool used to make it. Running her fingers over the smooth and blackened wood, she pursed her lips and turned into Clint.
"The wood burning pen." Clint's eyes locked with hers as he seemed to realise in real time whose signature this was.
"She's come out of retirement?" He hissed. Nat nodded silently.
"Pardon me, ma'am, but who are y'all talking about?" The flummoxed Officer Davis cut in. Nat turned to him.
"S.H.I.E.L.D will be taking this over. We will contact the local services when we need your help."
"Ma'am!" He protested, but Natasha would hear none of it.
"This isn't a joke, sir." She said as she ushered the bemused policeman to his car.
"What are all y'all talking about!?" He was shoved into his painted honda. Irritated now, Natasha grabbed her collar and pulled it down to expose the high part of her left collar bone. The otherwise clear skin was marred with a scar- the same brand as the tree. It was a faded pink that looked like she had bubblegum stuck to her shoulder. It was raised and ridged, a blemish, but a testament to what she had gone through.
"This is what we're up against." She didn't dare raise her voice louder than a furious whisper to the horrified officer. "I received this brand as a reminder that I could never leave. I got it because I dared to show emotion; because I was brave enough to plan my escape."
A beat. "Go." With a frightened nod, the deputy slammed the door to his cruiser closed and started the engine. Nat was distracted for just a moment, running her fingers over the scar that had been burnt into her skin, and looked to the tree. That would be a fatal mistake.
Perhaps, if she had been paying attention to her surroundings, she would have noticed the sniper in the tree, adjusting their scope to hit the temple of the officer's head. Perhaps, if she had just looked up and drawn her gun, the deputy would have lived.
A sudden shot rang out as the glass window of the car shattered. Without a flinch or even a blink, Natasha and Clint immediately crouched down in a ready squat and drew their guns. Another gunshot; an officer taking crime scene photos dropped, his camera smashed. One more, and the final officer that the Charleston police had sent was on the side of the roadway.
It was a massacre, but Natasha somehow didn't lose her composure. Clint steeled his nerves, looking away from Officer Davis's body in the car. He reminded himself that this wasn't the first body that he had seen. He had just met the man barely 10 minutes before, and now Davis was dead. He wondered if the man had a family, and who would tell them.
"Clint." Natasha brought him back to reality as more gunshots shattered the windshield of the police car, mutilating Davis's face beyond recognition. Clint flinched then. A shard of glass embedded itself in his thigh, and he pulled it out with a grimace and a squelch, wrapping a kerchief around the wound.
"They're shooting from an upwards angle. They look to be covered in one of the trees on the other side of the highway. Do you have your bow?" Clint nodded silently, his eyes trained on the trees on the other side. Could he make it? He'd made farther distances before. With a dry swallow, he pulled out his bow, crouching behind the destroyed vehicle and aiming for the area that Nat directed. It was not the time to be unsure. It was time to act before it was their spinal fluid on the concrete.
With a quick exhale, the arrow left his bow and created a sonic boom as it exploded on the other side of the highway, knocking most of the leaves off the trees and leaving the sniper vulnerable. He notched a second arrow, aiming it to the dark shape that continued to shoot. Debris from the bullets flew up at his face as he struggled to aim.
"Shoot now!" Natasha called, so he pulled his hand off the bow. The arrow flew out again, and they watched with bated breath. The tree exploded in a stinging blast, and the heat flew over them. Natasha remembered the burst of light and pain from Miami and curled in tighter to herself. Clint shut his eyes, shielding his face with his hand as he shied away.
All was silent. It seemed strange. The highway had been blocked off before, so they weren't interrupted. No cards drove by; the birds were silent. Clint counted to ten before turning cautiously toward the target. The tree was aflame, the bare branches clear. He didn't dare sigh yet, instead silently turning to Natasha.
She was still curved into the fetal position at the bumper of the car. Her breathing was fast and dry sobs wracked her body. He reached out with a single, shaking, gloved hand.
"Nat?" Clint whispered gently, reminded of his kids after they had a nightmare. Natasha cried out, covering her ears with her hands. She was trembling, sweaty and unable to sit up. Clint had seen this many times- experienced it too.
"Make them stop." She said in a quivering voice, her eyes wide and haunted. "Make the voices stop."
"Nat, listen to me. You have to breathe." Clint was at a loss, afraid to touch her if it would set off a larger attack. They needed to move before they became more vulnerable targets, but there was nowhere to go. Natasha nodded quickly and tried to push herself up from the asphalt littered with bullets and carcasses.
She flinched as soon as her hands left her ears, though. Clint grimaced, canvassing the space around them. They were clear for now. He scooped Natasha up and ran into cover into the woods where he could radio the damage in. The trees loomed around them as he began to become woozy from blood loss.
He stumbled on a tree root, looking around and finally placed Natasha in the embrace of the large evergreen. The gnarled roots were a testament to how much it had seen, and the circumference of the trunk was larger than Clint could measure with his arms. It was a good shelter, at least for the time being.
Crouching down, Clint tried to remember the training that S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him about P.T.S.D. "Nat, listen to me. It's not real. That was years ago."
He tried to ground her, remind her that whatever she was reliving happened so long ago. Natasha was vulnerable right now- mentally and physically. Clint was bleeding out from a large gash in his leg from the glass exploding. Was this how they would die? He refused. They had survived far worse. Blood loss meant cookies.
Clint couldn't have said for sure what mission or battle she was reliving until she started mumbling apologies in her native language- Russian. Guilt. It wasn't her fault. She would never absolve that to herself. She would always blame herself; she could have stopped them. Only she controlled her actions. Clint didn't believe that.
"C'mon, Nat. I believe in you. You're not a killer. We can save him. We can save Peter, just like how I saved you. We're outside in South Carolina. We're not in… there anymore." Her breathing began to slow down, and the glaze on her eyes disappeared as a tear finally escaped. The blood that was slowly dripping down her forehead reached her eyebrow and she shakily brushed it away. Clint smiled, though his eyes were worried.
"How ya doing?" He said. Natasha nodded curtly, pursing her lips, ignoring the drumbeat of her head. She pushed herself up, leaning against the tree. She was wobbly, though she refused to be perceived as so.
Nat needed to be strong. She thought she didn't need help; she declared that she didn't need people to obsess over her injuries. She had been taking care of herself for years. Any show of dependency in her eyes would show her weakness, and that was when her enemies would strike.
She looked around the woods. They looked mundane, the only movement was the green leaves of spring waving in the wind. Were they saying goodbye? Natasha wasn't going to let them. She drew out her gun shakily, crouching and analysing their surroundings. A few hundred feet away, against a tree, there was someone.
"Clint." She whispered, gesturing at him to look away from his device that he was using to contact help. Natasha flicked her head and gun in the direction of the person on the tree. They were standing up, unmoving. Was that Peter?
The two agents ran behind one tree, closer than the evergreen, each looking out one side of the trunk with their weapons at the ready. They continued this trend until they reached the line of trees closest to the person.
With a simple nod, Clint peered out from the side of the tree. There was the bloody boy, probably around 16 to 18, if Natasha had to guess. He had shaggy brown hair, pale skin, and wide brown eyes that were filled with fear. His throat was cut from ear to ear, almost like he was wearing a grotesque smile, and the blood dripped down slowly like syrup. The boy was held up with the rope that was tying his hands together around the tree; his shoulders were dislocated, but he continued to fight against his bonds, muffled screaming coming from his mouth, which was sewn shut with thread. He was covered with burn marks, bloody lacerations and wounds. This was a clear mark of torture, and Natasha could only think of one thing as he continued to scream, his voice near silenced.
"Peter?"