A/N: I cannot apologize enough for the lack of chapters. Amidst homework and hand-ins in the IB, SPN marathons, inconvenient muse disappearances, and a friend's promise to co-write scenes in this and then being unable to help me due to even heavier a workload than me (and a lack of passion towards this story, something which I cannot fault her for) and the premiere of Thor: The Dark World, which required cosplaying, this story got downgraded in my priorities. That, sadly, meant the readers of this story did not get to read what has long been brewing in my mind.
Parts of this story are co-written by user Norimn (I won't say which) who was endured me for, well, more than parents would accept in the behavior of their own kid. She's the devil and the angel on my shoulders, depending on how sadistic she's feeling that day ;) Thanks, luv.
I realize others, like me, do not get those pesky-but-well-loved emails and alerts anymore, but I hope you, like me if you love a story, check the online content every once in a while, and you may find this chapter and be positively surprised.
Disclaimer: No poseo nada. See, I've gotten better at Spanish. Ish. I dunno. Maybe just incorrectly bolder. I don't own anything, and am unaffiliated with the wonder that is Marvel.
Silent Spider: Chapter 17
Unknown location in Italy
She'd been tortured before. She knew that, somewhere deep down, beneath the pain, locked away along with the abilities of how to cope with the incredible pain she was experiencing. She knew she was a person, a person capable of experiencing and sensing so much more than this overriding pain, but it was hard for the pain to stop long enough to actually recall and register the fact. Her body no longer cramped and twitched at the painful pokes and punches, but had gone limp from exhaustion and a pathetic whimpering she hoped she kept to herself.
She might have lost her voice, but she was capable plentifully of moaning and groaning in pain (not that she'd allow them the pleasure). The agony was excruciating—but she'd graduated from the pain of hot ashes of rebirth from one of the most inhuman educational systems in the world. She was someone who'd once been them, the hurter and the torturer. She should remember, but she couldn't, in fact she could barely hear the voices demanding answers, demanding information that she could not give, the reasons of which were slipping from her grasp and understanding by the minute.
She registered shouts but they were too loud like church bells, chiming heavily like thunder. Repeatedly, buckets of water, freezing and nearly boiling (it was hard to tell, and earlier she'd been sure they alternated; now she wasn't so sure it wasn't a mind trick), were emptied above her, frying her system and jerking it into horrible sensation each time she managed some sort of inner restful state of peace.
It wasn't the worst part no, not even close. She could handle the pain; handle the sensations—if they only allowed her rest. They hadn't, not since they had brought her here some ten hours ago, dragged her unbeaten unto a chair and smirked sadistically at the promise of future hurt. Her wrists were arrested above her in chains that had been twisted around the joints and one link had been pierced through the muscular tissue, suspending her firmly and painfully like a pig on a slaughter hook. Her shoulders were close to dislocating and her elbows had hung too long not to experience damage. Her ankles, likewise, had been wrapped in chains, her toes blue with low blood supply. A link, too, had been split and pressed through her ankle, impaling her utmost uncomfortably. Infection might already have set in, she couldn't tell. Perhaps the water did some good.
She was reaching the point of indifference and apathy, and that was dangerous. The method was akin to crucifixion, and had her mind not been slurred, she might have been able to name the man who'd taught these goons. They weren't amateurs, but every graduate had a former master, and she had been around long enough to be familiar with most methods and original practitioners.
She wanted to scream the pain away as they plunged a knife, small of size but adequate for the intended damage, into the gap between two of her lower ribs. The force of the stabbing made her body twist, and the pain caused her to clutch the chain even harder, her palms pressing against the sweaty iron in an attempt to brace herself for the force of the plunge as it echoed through her hands like a blow with an iron pipe unto bone. She winced and was rewarded with dark laughter.
Coughs shook her body and she spat blood, staining the filthy floor even further in a brazen attempt to be defiant. "This is for Marco, bitch," her torturer hissed hatefully, his body seething with anger.
Had she had more strength, she would have used it to her advantage. Anger compromised you and weakened you. It made you make mistakes. Quite honestly, she had no idea who "Marco" was. They mistook her silence for defiance, which was more tragic than it should have been. She didn't consider herself innocent, so there was always the possibility of actually having harmed this Marco. She couldn't deny that in the end, their intense method might work. Problem was—would they even notice? If so, there was no problem.
The Italian man didn't wait long until he drew another knife. They were small, delivering relatively small damage, but they hurt still. He stabbed her in the thigh until a sharp hiss emerged from her lips, and twisted the blade painfully slow. His eyes were attached to her face, expectant of the smallest signs of discomfort, and she wanted him to bleed and hurt as he received the tiniest of defeatist expressions.
"No così trionfante ora," he whispered, his face almost cracked in two so wide was his smile. She snarled at him and struggled in her chains. Even if she hadn't known Italian, she would have been capable of deciphering his arrogant boastfulness. "Don't worry, we'll get you speaking. You'll be screaming in no time, signorina…" he promised darkly.
She coughed and spat, the mucus landing in a small pile on his boot. She smirked modestly at the small victory. It earned her a major tap on the head, which sent painful throbs through her skull. She winced at the sound her neck made at the whack, but didn't otherwise show weakness.
Her vision was red on her left eye. She couldn't tell if it was the color of her hair combined with blurred vision, or blood, but by the way it burned whenever she blinked too hard, she figured it was blood and grime. Her rough-handed torturer wasn't exactly delicate. She'd done an assessment of injuries about two hours ago, and had added five more things to the growing lists of pains. She felt her body recover from the shock of the injury and register the pain of three fractured ribs, a possibly broken jaw – no, not quite, she assessed, as she allowed her tongue to roam her gums and check for pangs of pain, before she allowed it to rest on her collarbone (that, however, was definitely broken) – and the sizzling pains of multiple stab wounds. She hoped the knives were clean. If they were, her amplified regenerative abilities would kick in if offered brief rest.
The asshole had been working on her for the past three hours. He didn't seem to be tiring at the rate she was, which disagreed with her. He was getting awfully chatty, though. "Think you can kill whoever you want without consequence. See, that is not how it works."
Her head hung indifferently due to her strained muscles and her vision was becoming sluggish, a fading focus. 'What are you talking about?' she mouthed, doubting he had enough brains to realize her muteness.
Quick as a striking serpent, he caught her chin between two fingers and pressed, causing her split lip to bulge. Eyes were forced to watch him, his filthy face, the hair too greasy with product, and the eyes small, dark and rodent-like. His breath smelled like day-old vodka and cigarettes. If she hadn't before, she felt like vomiting now. "What, cat caught your tongue? You'll pay for Marco's death, don't even bother feigning ignorance!" he spat and pushed her back violently in his anger.
The chains followed the motion, but swung in her flesh. She bit her lip – the un-split one – to prevent herself from screaming. She hit the wall with a deafening crack, and black dots invaded her vision. She swung back towards him, docilely breathless from the blow. Her thoughts wandered – wandered off and drifted to a place from the harm while the pain continued its consistent toll. It was bitter, really, that she admired their consistency (along with sick and twisted and a whole bunch of likeminded words). She came to with a standoffish sense of vivacity, remembering herself and her mission.
She thought about the Bastard and Yelena, and whether or not they'd come her for. Doubtlessly, Desta didn't want to see her harmed, but he was in Malta and knew little about her current condition until it was reported, and that would probably occur too late. The last three weeks were replayed before her inner eye in some sort of déjà vu where intervention was impossible. She remembered the fight (inadequate word, really, but she didn't have a thesaurus nearby, so it'd have to do) with Clint and felt something like remorse run its course. She shouldn't have been as judgmental. He shouldn't have, either, but she shouldn't have gotten as emotional about it. Of course he had his reasons to think her so utterly immoral. Problem was, he didn't know all the facts, all the standpoints. If he had, he wouldn't have been so quick to judge.
I'm sorry, Clint. I promised myself I'd never regret, and here I am, regretting. She snorted mentally at her sentimentality, and for some reason, remembered Kraus' teasing, departing words, and more importantly, her own, which applied to her own situation. She still loves you. You're complaining she's not in love with you.
He still loves you. You're bitter he's not in love with you, but his delusions of who you could be and used to be, a voice added. Her cynical self remarked the illogic of the conclusion, but she had little strength for inner dialogues.
Was she really upset that Clint had chosen his job's morals and his sense of righteousness above her? There had been a time when she'd been too fearful to ask devotion of Clint, certain he'd give it to her. Now she was irritated he hadn't. Ruefully, she blamed herself. She could have explained herself in a fashion that wouldn't have prompted him to spy on her. She had too many boxes to hide for common espionage to be successful.
Desta controlled her like a doll, the only thing from his reach her past. He was resourceful the way trained ones were and only could be, observant to a fault. In exchange for her loyalty he'd offered something few criminals could: sanctuary for those she needed protected.
You are no one's. A shadow of a shade. That's how I like you. You are the night dagger. I have your loyalty, not your heart.
No, Desta didn't, but he had something much more valuable. But what if Clint had her heart and she was once asked to choose? She'd never followed its whims before. Maybe it was too late to begin.
She twitched and jerked into wakefulness as her nervous system was put to the test. Electricity coursed through her at reasonably low setting, and her teeth clattered. She groaned in lack of preparation. Dammit, she'd been trained to withstand and endure torture! It angered her more than weakened her to be unable to do that. She buried herself deep into the maze of Red Room installed mechanisms that had once prevented her from functioning as a human being. The training that had helped her cope into the life as Nikolaevna, no first name.
She didn't have to be a person. She'd functioned as an independent operative for long enough to be superior to the pain. Red Room had bred forward in her a capacity for pain, mechanisms to employ a sadomasochistic nature in the face of pain and come out on top. Their methods were cruel, but they had worked simply, and proven hard in the past to override. Nikolaevna possessed certain traits Natalia Romanova had arrogantly prided herself with.
Natasha had named him, this torturer, in a moment of vice and creative profanities. It wasn't particularly stellar, but it fitted the purpose of naming him—of registering upon the list in her mind of persons that would no longer live, should she be freed—and hence he became the Prey. The Prey seemed to satisfy himself with torturing her, but he was unaware of the images that passed before his victim's eye, images of creative vengeance. The ideas that spawned in her head were truly vile and violent, a dance to the Prey's crude fight. He exhausted himself as much as he exhausted Natasha.
She bided her time. Meanwhile, the Prey was watching her as she barely kept back whimpers. "Oh, don't strain yourself," he laughed darkly. "You'll need your strength. Belinda will see to it," he promised before he made his departure. She didn't like the tone of his voice. Not one bit.
Rome, Italy
Clint wasn't sure what he was doing (well, he was wrong on that one—he was rescuing Natasha); he just wasn't sure how he was doing it (again, the answer fell quite obvious—with the help of two members of the same organization he was currently trying to, and assigned to exterminate). All this lead to a conclusion he'd known all along: that he was beyond compromised. He should quit the taskforce assignment this very instant and go back to S.H.I.E.L.D., hoping the names Leonum Tarpeius and Nikolaevna never came across his desk.
That's what he should do.
Right now he was back in Natasha's lair—for the lack of a better term—with a girl who'd talked him into joining this band of rescuers. She'd told him a name, but if it was hers, he wasn't to estimate. Still, it sure beat having to refer to her as "that girl", although it might have helped him maintain some distance towards her as a person. Right now she was his only means of getting to Natasha—he'd have to suffer the consequences of this alliance later. But he sure as hell wasn't trusting these two anytime soon, that was for sure.
Yelena's "friend" turned out to be a nearly seven feet tall man who looked like he had the mind to be underestimated in a fight of cunning. In fact, Clint was already pretty uncomfortable already with the fact that this man openly distrusted him. He offered no name, and so neither did Clint. He supposed it was for the better—this way, neither would be capable of ratting the other out.
This unnamed friend and Yelena weren't used to working each other. They had an instable routine and Clint wouldn't have been surprised if they told him they hadn't worked together before. They didn't complement each other like long-time partners did. That much was evident. They had potential, though. Yelena, young and for most parts, ambitious, evidently educated, seemed rebellious in the light of the man's calm and uncaring calculation. The man was troubled with the abduction but not enough to warrant erratic behavior. He seemed to be weighing the options, displeased with the situation that had clearly spun out of control.
"The Italians," he snickered and kicked the chair. He'd been sitting calmly by the oak desk of Natasha's study. "It's the fucking Italians!" He cursed and tore his eyes from the email he was reading.
"Who?" said both Clint and Yelena in partial confusion and ignorance.
"The Italians. She finished off one in Berlin. He came for the Hexad, got in the way. Nikolaevna took him down smoothly. 'Told me about it herself. He had to have been mafia." The man gritted his teeth spitefully. "I hate the mob."
Yelena looked at Clint and shrugged casually in conclusion. "He hates the mob."
"Where are they keeping her?" he asked, seeing as the man seemed to have some sort of information (having known and concluded who'd taken Tasha from his source of intel on the tablet).
"That depends," the Brit said cryptically, his accent lacing the words with a sophistication that was the circumstances improper. "Who do you want to be?"
"Bastard, that's irrelevant now," Yelena interjected, impatient and displeased. "He's not being recruited, he wants to help. And if we want to increase the odds of us actually surviving this little display of incompetence, we'll need all the help we can get."
"Fine then," the Brit growled. "That depends," he rephrased, eyes watchfully on Clint. "Can we trust you?"
"To save Na—," he corrected himself, "Nikolaevna, yes."
"You know a name," the Brit said, brows raised in surprise. It seemed as if he hadn't expected Clint to know their cohort as well as he did. Clint didn't know whether to be offended or not, but prized secrecy above pride, so he said nothing. Unless Natasha had experienced a total personality change, he knew her far better than these people, as she never openly shared information about herself (he'd been forced to analyze and deduce for himself, often leading to rightful conclusions).
"So do I," Yelena reasoned. "It means nothing."
"Yeah, but you're different. Nikolaevna chose to take you on board. Him? He could be nothing but a lay from a bar nearby." The Brit scoffed in disdain.
"She's not you." The teen seemed anxious and impatient, aware that each minute could possibly be the one that transpired simultaneously with Natasha's last breath. Clint valued such notions. Yelena had crossed her arms, locking them firmly.
Natasha, what impression have you made – what have you done – to cause such loyalty in a girl who's knee-deep in this nightmare?
"I know some people I can call. It'll cost us, though," the Brit explained, evidently willing to contact the people but reluctant to do so.
"If he finds out Nikolaevna died due to our lack of intervention, we're dead already," Yelena argued. "I prefer being in debt to being dead."
An eerie sense of déjà vu ran through Clint at those words and he eyed the youngster suspiciously. He'd known another girl with delusions of debts and deaths. He'd saved a girl from Red Room who'd said almost those exact words and spent six years repaying an imaginary debt.
Meanwhile, the Brit cracked a small smile. "You're learning quickly, girl. That's good."
Unknown location, Italy
- Undisclosed amount of time later (that day)
"Wakey, wakey," an excited voice chirped from a fair number of metres away, owing to her prediction of the size of the room. She'd previously tried to make an assessment of exits and size, by the light was tricky and dim at best, too filthy not to incite shadows.
Heels clicked against concrete as the speaker made her way towards Natasha, coming to a halt a couple of seconds later, upon which the scrape of something metallic became audible "You're no fun," the mystery woman said in her petite tone. "Not even a greeting?"
She moved closer, rounding the area Natasha was suspended within with measured steps. "But please, excuse my rudeness. I haven't introduced myself. I am your company for the next period of time. Be it hours—" The blade of a knife ran up her upper arm from the joint—not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that she could feel the cold sharpness, a dull pain bordering on merely annoying spreading through her arm, "—or be it days. Personally, I kind of hope for days," she added wickedly, expectantly.
She stepped back, withdrawing the knife from Natasha's exposed skin. A red line of irritated skin came into view. The woman tilted her head. "You may call me Belinda. Even if they tell me you don't speak much, it's only good form for you to have something to call me – especially," she whispered, and here she got a truly predatory and menacing look on her face, "when you cry out for me."
Belinda cackled as if deeply amused. Natasha looked up, straining her neck to perform the proud action. For seconds, she watched her newest torturer. Her wickedness seemed misplaced because she was petite and delicate and blonde and everything feminine and innocent, according to most Disney movies, anyway. Natasha knew enough never to think that about this Belinda whose brown eyes – thankfully not blue – had hardened to whatever tragedy had befallen her. Natasha didn't pity her loss of innocence. Sooner of later, it'd had to happen, and Belinda was one of those women who'd obviously chosen the tough life above the life of rose petals and magazines and chatty hairdressers, or the false safety of computer screens and local police protection promises.
In simplest terms, Belinda was the mob's finest asset. She had to be mob. There was a certain element of coordination to the setup, organization (hell, this place was probably far from anything meaningful or civilian). Natasha knew how it worked. Young damsels were underestimated—she'd played the part so many times. She'd killed many people looking like a young, hopeful ballerina, including the innocence behind dead eyes. She'd killed in the appearance of a porcelain doll with the most delicate of smiles and blushing cheeks. She'd buried the world in blood-stained tutus and cocktail dresses with revealing cleavages and sweetheart appearances, switching between the, interchangeably.
"I'm no fool," Belinda informed her, her tiny voice laced with an expectant venom. "I can see that look in your eyes. You're not something untainted. I see your scars, I see that coldness." She paused, not disappointed with her assessment. "I see a challenge."
With a crack, the whip – which had up until now been concealed and kept from Natasha's view – fell harshly upon skin, erupting in a muffled cry. It was partially metallic, that was for sure. It left behind an angry line of red on the skin of her stomach as blood rushed to the skin. The prisoner inhaled sharply and thought of the Prey's techniques. They, at least, had been predictable. Belinda seemed highly unstable herself. Her joy was subtle, though, a contained smile that was processed though a dimple.
She curtsied gingerly at the success and waved the whip aptly in her hand like a fire dancer's stave. Natasha could envision her performance, and her commitment might once, if benign, have been called admirable and sweet.
Belinda leaned in, but maintained enough distance so that the illusion of safety wasn't breached, so that Natasha could not harm her, and that she possibly wouldn't harm Natasha back. "That man you killed in Berlin? My brother," she whispered, not visibly upset. She shrugged. "I don't blame you. It's not personal. Didn't like him much. So don't be remorseful. He'd probably have died soon anyway."
The whip burned against her skin again—this time upon her face, leaving her cheek aching raw. The burning sensation coursed through her body and she forced her head backwards to distance herself from her pain, hoping to alleviate the agony. Belinda wouldn't be fast, no; despite her rapid moves, she'd drag the torture out slowly, hoping to make Natasha beg for death.
The young woman chuckled and picked up what she had been dragging behind her. With gentle movements, she caressed the handle like an old lover. She reminded Natasha of whom she'd once been. A cold girl with dead eyes and a fondness of pain and performance whose only source of entertainment and vivacity was acting out the part she'd been cast for. She was, given her age (it would be sufficient to conclude that Belinda was not enhanced, aside from a rather wicked indulgence), the potential of what Belova could become, if the situation was left un-intervened.
Natasha tasted blood on her tongue and coughed, randomly spattering the ground below. Fine, crimson drops painted a pattern on the filthy floor of the small room of a warehouse. Her eyes zoomed in on the details without her consent, and everything else blurred in a nauseating theft of sight.
She heard Belinda step around her to where her back, flayed and naked aside from a bra whose underwire was digging into an open stab wound between two ribs, was exposed. It made breathing laborious, but she was managing, indecently, like a gasping fish on land. She tensed, unable to prepare herself for the impact of injury. She heard the metallic pieces of the torture device—which probably had another purpose, but light was dim here, and so she was left with her somewhat disabled hearing sense as the strongest aside from that of touch—move and be lifted as it gathered potential energy for deployment.
It didn't prepare her for the agony of having all available oxygen hauled from her lungs and the powerful push of heavy metal being thrown against damaged and weakened flesh of her spine and back, and the tug in the chains, forced forward by the power and speed of the attack, futilely attempting to shield itself, which hung in bruised wrists and actual meat. Her toenails scraped against concrete floor, and a nail fled its position on a toe.
The prisoner held back a cry of pain, clearly disappointing the torturer whose hope was strangulated at the lack of victory. Frustrated, she lifted the knife she'd previously used teasingly, and flung it maniacally across Natasha's back, in deep gaps and endless voids; in superficial cuts and grazes, mad and rabid with her own ambition, adamant to be the person in the room with the power and control. In her attempt to maintain so, she lost the control.
Natasha would have laughed if she'd been able. Instead, a halfhearted snort came out before it drowned in pains and incomprehensible, incoherent mental pleas.
Mentana, Italy – 29 kilometers outside Rome
That evening
The Brit's contacts did more than just know who'd taken Natasha. It was the Italians, and it was the mob, a faction of it anyhow, lead by a woman with an unsettling reputation. Who, as the Brit found out, had just lost a brother in a stabbing in Berlin. This did not bide well for Tasha's treatment. It unsettled Clint further that the description of the woman was practically an echo of the assessment that had once been made for him on the Black Widow. Not that he was planning to offer Belinda DeLuca any mercies or deals.
The contacts were also willing to reveal the location of the abductors. The DeLucas had residence in Mentana from which they—now her—operated. Her brother, Marco DeLuca, had most likely been Natasha's victim in Berlin (the Brit seemed reluctant to share any details, not eager to possibly criminalize Nikolaevna further in Clint's presence), which complicated any plans for negotiations.
Despite the sheer illegality of the situation, Clint couldn't help but notice the eerie similarity to a tactical team's approach to a hostile environment. The trio wore no Kevlars, but they each had strapped illegally seized weapons and firearms on their person—Yelena's amount and familiarity had unsettled Clint momentarily—and looked more than ready to take down a small colony.
He heard a weapon being checked and loaded, a magazine clip being pressed into the chamber. An agent for more than half his life, Clint's natural reaction to the sound was to look over his shoulder. He almost expected to see Natasha, grinning at him with daredevilry in her eyes. Instead stood Yelena, attention on the gun in her hand. She didn't look inexperienced around it.
"So," Clint heard himself converse despite his personal vow to distance himself from these two criminals. "What did that mean, what he said?" He gestured towards the direction the Brit had gone to do reconnaissance. They had encountered one guard whom they'd silently knocked out. "That she chose to take you on board."
Yelena looked unimpressed but reluctant. "Does it matter?" she asked.
"No." He paused. "Not if he didn't mean it."
She eyed him as if he was the strangest sample of the species she'd encountered. Maybe he was. He was arming himself to storm a compound to rescue a woman who was plenty of capable. "Why do you care? Nikolaevna take pets, she doesn't take lovers, but you seem like an odd exception."
He didn't know what to say. He looked down at Yelena's hands. If he deluded himself a little bit (which at this point was justifiable), ignoring the lack of seasonal veteran scars, he could pretend those hands were Natasha's. They surely handled the gun with the same dexterity. Usage would prove if she was as competent. Due to this pretension, he wasn't sure if he was imaging things when he saw a mark on the young girl's hand. He grabbed it rudely for inspection and was met by the barrel of the handgun – a Colt model, if he wasn't wrong (and weapons were kinda his thing, wasn't it?) – being dug into his ribs. The face that met him on Yelena was no-nonsense.
He let go of her hand reluctantly but instantly. "Apologies. It's just… I recognized that mark." He pointed at her hand and realized it was the – would be, in Tasha's case – space in-between the fingers that weren't on the Black Widow anymore. He hadn't given it any thought. Guess it was wrong, the thing about only noticing things when they were gone. Clint hadn't noticed that Natasha no longer carried the small Black Widow hourglass on her hands, the small but unmistakable tattoo she'd received way back when.
Yelena tried to shrug it off. She withdrew her hand and hastily wiped it in the fabric of her pants, as if it'd somehow make it—and the probably painful memories that went along with it—go away. "So what."
"You're a Black Widow," he deduced, mouth half agape with the kind of calm surprise he wouldn't have thought himself capable of. Few things surprised him anymore, and those that did apparently had Natasha's connections all over it. He would have smirked if the situations hadn't been so serious. Hell, he'd have laughed even if that had been, had Natasha been by his side.
"Shut up," she growled. She rechecked the gun as if someone had had their hands on it in the brief time between checking it last time and now. "I'm not, okay. I was meant to be, but then I wasn't. Evidently." Yelena rolled her eyes.
"That's why you offered the deal. Nat's training you, isn't she?" he hissed.
Yelena opened her mouth to snap at him, but the Brit came back, enlightening them in the cone of red light of the flashlight. His face, semi-obscured, looked professionally amused. "You two behaving, or am I gonna have to separate you?"
Clint eyed the girl and reached what he'd later dub silent mutual agreement. The Brit briefed them. "Not a lot of muscle, but they do have fine toys." He gestured to the automatic assault rifle in his hands and stroked its barrel with something akin to fondness. Yelena whistled in admiration.
"What's the plan?" Clint asked.
"Five guards are posted around the building. From what I've seen in the windows, just as many inside, if not more. Not a hotspot but enough to get ugly if they're all carrying these babies." He padded the assault rifle. "Guy I stiffed told me DeLuca is inside. Apparently, she's getting real cozy."
The Brit's face grimaced and twitched in disapproval at his own words. They all got solemn looks on their faces. Surprisingly, the Brit then looked at Clint. "So, got a plan?"
Clint went through the factors and variables in his head, scheming. He'd have smirked that mischievous smile he hadn't smirked in a long while if it hadn't been his Tasha DeLuca was getting cozy with. "Yeah," he said casually. "But I'm gonna need all your help."
Before S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint had been army. Black ops, due to his incredible aim, but black ops had taught him, along with the darker sides of humanity, to strategize. He doubted he could outshine Natasha's abilities—because those were outright scary—but they were good enough to rival hers. He hoped—no, he prayed—that they were good enough to lead this team of distrusting misfits in a rescue. With the variables the Brit had provided, including himself, the Brit, Yelena, and what they knew of Belinda DeLuca's type, he strategized.
"We have the element of surprise. For about a few minutes more, until they discover their missing guard. We go in, and we go in fast. The estate's large, but the house itself is southbound. Means there are grounds to cover from here. We have to prepare for the worst." He caught Yelena's eyes. "If she is alive and can walk, good. If she can fire a gun, better. But if she can't—"
"Tactics, Bonaparte?" the Brit rushed, evidently not considering it important to share what they were all coming up with of worst-case scenarios in the urgent situation.
Really? Bonaparte? Jesus, you can do better than—. "There's no strength in numbers here. You both look like you're the damned that escaped hell. You pack a mean punch."
The Brit and Yelena looked like they agreed. They also didn't look like much of a fighting tactical team. Clint had done worse damage with less. However, if a man who could look more intimidating than a girl with Black Widow training, had at the very least Clint's training (which he appeared to have, and then some), maybe the odds weren't half bad.
Odds meant shit if Tasha was dead, though. Because something inside Clint told him that if Tasha was dead, there really was no going back. He'd have collaborated with criminals, with terrorists, have broken his own holy line in the sand, without reason. If, however, she was alive—and there were plenty of past experiences that assured him she could endure (but that was when she hadn't been broken and alone)—he knew, despite himself, that it'd be worth it.
He got the taste of something sour in his mouth as he looked sideways at the camaraderie between Yelena and the Brit; the devotion and willingness to rescue their cohort and ally, even if it meant working with someone they hardly knew. He remembered how he'd portrayed them in his critique. You left S.H.I.E.L.D. so you could go off and join these people? Murderers and terrorists? Don't you dare compare us to these immoral bastards!
He swallowed, closed his eyes and braced himself for gunfight. Remorsefully—because he knew it was wrong—he began to understand these people.
After all, it hadn't been them who had hunted her down.
Three minutes later, he (and at least one of the others, from the muffled sounds of gunfire and regular body thumps from upstairs) had breached the perimeter. He'd engaged in his first brawl and had ducked just in time to avoid a stray bullet that would have reminded his ribs of their mortality.
He had the job of searching, and plummeting, it seemed, through the lower levels of the compound. There were three, and assignment had been swift. He was currently covering around the corner of a hallway while bullets whipped by. A waste of ammunition. Once it ceased, he heard footsteps across glass shards, presumably from the door he'd crashed as he'd taken out the first guard he'd spotted. That guy laid on the ground, a round hole in his forehead, blood oozing from the sides of the bullet that was still lodged in there. He wasn't getting up, but his partner sure was throwing a hissy fit.
Clint took his chances, calmed his breath and whipped out the compound bow. The feel of it in his hands were sweeter than anything he'd felt in a while, painlessly simple, and elegant in a way the world never would be. He'd hidden its presence when he and the two Tarps had armed themselves, not ready to answer questions and certainly not ready to be recognized. He nocked the arrow with precision and the Mafioso looked taken aback even as the arrow protruded from his chest and stopped the practical way his heart tended to beat. He fell, and Clint hesitated before stepping to his side, grabbing his assault rifle (thus disarming him) and yanking the arrow from his chest. Best not leave any evidence of Hawkeye's presence.
Clint stowed the bow and quiver away across his back where it rested almost invisibly against the black fabric. He felt naked without it, but this mission required stealth, not recognition, and he'd sacrifice his bow for Tasha any day. The man Yelena and the Brit had dragged in for muscle didn't, to their knowledge, walk around and shoot people like some shorthaired, wacko version of Legolas.
The archer was quick to put the hallway behind him, listening acutely for any footsteps. Upon hearing none and witnessing no evidence to disprove this conclusion, Clint continued hastily. The residence looked like something you got when you tried to mix storage facilities with residential areas. A clash between home and work, a warehouse-turned-home, or maybe it was the other way around. Clint was distracted from these pointless conclusions when he heard a sharp sound of gunshot—too close for it to have been upstairs; the sound was too close, the ceilings not thin enough—followed by the sound of… chains?
It wasn't what he'd expected, but that didn't slow him down. He broke into a speedy jog, torn between stealth and fast approach, both of which distracted him from the fist that came flying at him out of nowhere.
Smack. He hit the floor backwards, blood emerging through his nasal cavity. He blinked once and flew up again, pissed. It was the second time this week someone had slapped him (although this didn't exactly count as a slap, more of a punch). His leg kicked and swept his opponent off their feet, evidently surprised by his speedy recovery, and he was satisfied with the crunch he heard as the back of their head collided with the floor.
As his vision became one instead of a messy mesh of double vision, he noticed the door from which the assailant had come. It was yawning, a foreboding mash-up of sounds coming from it, like a preview from hell. He moved towards it but felt a jerk in his ankle as said assailant grabbed it and pulled hard to disorient Clint and disturb his balance.
Sure, Clint fell, but he dug his knee into the man's throat first and knew from personal experience it hurt. A lot. The man struggled, of course, as any sane man would have done, but Clint pinned his arms down with his legs, and the man's legs down with the weight of his body, long enough for him to empty more than a couple of cartridges into the man's chest, which soon looked like a mashed blood orange. It wasn't a good analogy, but he was dead regardless of Clint's poor choice in words.
It was with laborious breathing that Clint got up, a bit wobbly at first, but determination fueled his strength, and pushed the door open. Before him stretched a room the size of a generous prison cell, or alternatively, a warehouse storage room. It was dark aside from a wide cone of light emerging from the ceiling, downwards enlightening an unmistakably familiar figure whose curves he knew almost better than his own. He restrained himself from running to her, because he could see another figure, this one unchained and unharmed, moving in the periphery of the light. Belinda DeLuca.
His blood was boiling already, but his mind was clear and detached. She didn't seem to have noticed his entrance, or if she had, she assumed him to be one of her own. His trigger finger twitched above the trigger. It'd be so easy. One bullet and she'd drop dead, unable to redeem herself. He didn't, though. The woman spoke, not to him, but to her object of attention.
"You disappoint me. Here I am, offering fun and my full attention, and you're being so awfully selfish. Didn't anybody teach you manners? It's impolite to ignore your hostess," she chastised.
Natasha. Only then did Clint get himself to look at her, really look at her. It was sickening and brought him back to dozens of these situations in the past. How many times had he found her like this—or her him—tortured, beaten, barely breathing? He sucked in a breath and before he knew it, he had the gun in his hand, outstretched pointing at the woman whom he assumed to have been the torturer of his partner.
"Hey, DeLuca!" he heard himself shout. Two heads shot in his direction. He pulled the trigger instantaneously, only watching one face, the one that always mattered. Out of the corner of his eye, Belinda dropped to the ground.
Clint never stopped watching Natasha's frozen look of bewilderment and disbelief. Her lips moved through incredible pain. 'Clint—!'
He followed her line of sight, just in time to hurry aside as a corpse fell through the doorway with a loud thud. It'd have taken Clint down with him. The Brit followed, stepping over the poor bastard's body, marching disrespectfully across his back. His eyes found the suspended woman quickly, but Clint didn't have time to think about that. He'd practically leapt down the stairs, three steps a pace, rushing past Belinda. His eyes widened in horror as he took in Natasha.
The fucking bastards had pressed fucking chain-links into her skin. Fucking bastards. "I'll kill them," he vowed darkly as he stretched to fumble with the chain around—and through, he added mentally with a wince—her left wrist. Natasha moaned in pain at the smallest of frictions. "I'll fucking kill them," he hissed more hastily.
"Bonaparte!" the Brit called and it was only by chance Clint tore his eyes from Natasha and reacted.
The man had a discarded bolt cutter in his hands – which Clint suspected hadn't been placed here to cut metal – which he promptly threw in Clint's direction. The archer caught it and barely thought (although he was glad he did) before he aimed the grip of the bolt cutter above the links of the chain. "I need you to hold her," he said.
The Brit caught on immediately – which freaked Clint out more than the body through the door had – and supported Natasha as the bolt cutter cut through the chains a couple of links above the link that had been pressed through Natasha's arms.
He kept his eyes off her the best he could. He knew his detachment wouldn't last long if he knew the full extent of her injuries. He'd see red. He'd burn this place down regardless if its inhabitants were alive or not. Despite knowing this, however, he grabbed for her when he saw her collapse into the Brit's arms.
"Let me," he offered and pleaded. He gave the Brit a don't-question-me glare and the tall man obeyed. He transferred the barely alive woman unto Clint's arms. Clint had never minded that burden. "Let's get outta here."
"That depends on how well Belova's doing," the Brit hissed, once again turning towards the door—the sole exit of the room.
'You brought… Yelena?' Natasha croaked from her semi-dead state. Clint only noticed because she dug her finger into his sternum to get his attention and didn't cease until he'd read her lips.
"Shh, gather your strength," Clint urged her as he felt her tense in his arms. He breathed in the scent of pain and blood and sweat. Many mistook it for death. Clint took it for proof of life, of vivacity.
The next door to the small hallway of the basement storage room slammed open, revealing a bleeding Yelena who was busy fighting (or getting fought by) two assailants who were obviously getting the upper hand. It wasn't that Yelena's style wasn't ferocious—it was, and Clint had come to suspect Natasha for influencing it—but that these Mafioso were trained and obviously unaware that their leader and source of loyalty was dead.
The Brit was there to aid her instantly. However, a third emerged, slipping through the two fights, and Clint had to put Natasha down to exclude her from the fight. He came down hard upon the man with the trained and precise moves of the S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops division. He had to be quick. Knocking the guy harshly out, he kept punching until—
Bang. A gunshot rang out, startling everybody. His eyes shot to Natasha, who somehow managed to keep a standing position, towering over Belinda who seemed to have, before she got shot in the back of course, been crawling towards the nearest weapon. Natasha's eyes looked mad and cold altogether, both hands clutching the gun to steady her aim. Then she threw the weapon aside, grabbed the machete-like knife on the ground, pulled Belinda's head backwards by the hair, and cut her neck, ear-to-ear.
Blood gushed out of the blonde's throat and Natasha let go of the hair, so that Belinda DeLuca fell down in her own blood unceremoniously. Natasha kept still like that for an insurmountable amount of time, while the Brit and Yelena finished off their targets. She was straddling the corpse of Belinda from behind, something vengeful and exhausted in her expression. Blood tainted her complexion, multiple wounds with blood oozing.
Clint had never seen anything so broken be so beautiful in all his life. Then she crashed, her body unable to put off rest any longer, and it shut down before his eyes, a complete reboot and blackout. Clint stumbled across the floor and barely caught her broken body in time.
"Tash! Tasha! Dammit, you…!" he snapped breathlessly, wanting her to snap back at him, to say something that'd make it all better, something sarcastic. He wanted it so much he even forgot about her speech disabilities. It didn't work. She laid motionless and unresponsive in his arms, a peaceful expression never settling.
"Come on, Bonaparte, we haven't got all day!" the Brit said harshly to get his attention, to get him to tear his eyes off the collapsed Natasha. "Yelena heard more vehicles arrive. We need to leave now!"
Clint turned his attention back to Natasha, whose hands were fisted into his shirt.
'Anatolij,' she gasped in her sleep, a soundless murmur. 'Anatolij,' she repeated in a mantra.
"Let's go," he told the Brit in a solemn voice full of desperation.
A/N 2: I apologize for the over-use of Yelena here. Plus the occasionally sappy ending of this chapter. Hopefully updates will be more frequent than they were in the past two months.
Also, yeah, I really don't know why 'Bonaparte'.