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Clint
Clint watches Merida fire arrow after arrow in the shooting range. For someone who can't be much older than sixteen, it's clear that she's been shooting all her life. Even though her leg is broken and compromises her centre of balance, her shots are still true and hit their mark with stunning accuracy each time. He's impressed.
Eventually, Merida puts the bow down, and looks at Clint.
"It feels different than my old wood one," she says briefly. "A bit too fancy for my taste, if you must know."
"We all have our preferences," Clint says. He's always been one for the sleek high-tech set, but he reckons that it's only because he's a little boy at heart who wants the fancy toys. Merida has the mindset of someone who's lived in a warrior culture, someone who doesn't have time for frills even if she claims to be royalty. "We'll find you a wooden one."
"In DunBroch it is the archer's responsibility to carve one of his own, from a tree of his own choosing," Merida mutters, "Though all around me I see only forests of metal."
"There are forests, still." Unbelievably. "I'll bring you when you're better for walking."
"Thank you," Merida says, and reaches for her crutch. The leg would heal with more alacrity if she wasn't as adverse to bed rest as she was. Apparently, eleventh century Scotland had a far more effective and proactive attitude towards injuries which usually involves amputation and getting back on one's feet as soon as possible.
"You know, when I was home, I wanted so much for things to change. And now that they are changed, I miss everything about home," Merida admits as she sinks to her seat with a sigh of relief. "I wonder how I could have gone against my mother on so many things when I don't even know my mind now."
"Sometimes we need to spend time away from family before we can make our own choices," Clint says. He knows this from experience, knows how little a comfort the fact is. Merida says nothing in response, and after a few uncomfortable moments, he decides it's best to leave her. He doesn't notice the crackling in the atmosphere until he hears Merida's cry and turns around.
The firing range looks as though it's melted into a smudge in the air. Through it, Clint thinks he can see trees, a forest.
"Merida," he barks, "we don't know what that is. Get away."
For a moment, she falters, and Clint thinks that he's going to have to extract her personally. Then she turns around and gets out of what used to be the shooting range as fast as she can.
"JARVIS, what just happened?" Clint asks as soon as they're out of sight of the thing.
"It appears that a trans-dimensional portal has opened up in the shooting range, Mr Barton. I will alert Mr Stark immediately," JARVIS says in his usual deadpan.
"Does this happen often?" Clint demands.
"It has been happening with increasing regularity, but hardly on this level."
"Well that's just great."
Clint is getting a pang of nostalgia for the old days, which is kind of horrible. When he looks at Merida, he can see the same sort of unhappiness in her eyes. Maybe he's not cut out for babysitting, or teenagers, but he knows when he should offer words to a fellow marksman.
"You're going to be all right," he says. "With your skills, you can survive anything."
"I'm not worried about my survival," Merida says, "I have family, and I need to get back to them. The range is my only way back."
"You're not from there," someone mutters from behind them, and Clint knows, knows that things are about to get a lot more complicated. He turns around and sees a dark-skinned girl with a bow in her hand and a quiver on his back. Her look is grim, as though she's been fighting for her life since she was born.
When it comes to cosmic portals, Clint knows better than to believe in coincidences. Two archers coming through portals in as many months means somebody big is planning something bigger.