so...I proof read this at 1:00 in the morning...so I probably missed a lot.
also, I an too tired to think of a name for this chapter at the moment. I'll figure that out later.
enjoy!
He came back to himself slowly, drifting in and out of consciousness several times before fully coming to and finally opening blurry eyes to a dim room.
Everything ached and he couldn't breathe. Fighting back the initial panic that comes with the feeling of suffocating; he tried to focus on dragging in enough oxygen.
After several painful and inadequate attempts to suck in enough air, he was finally able to take stock of his situation. The room was dim and nondescript; a dingy pit with a metal door for holding "guests of honor." He was hanging a few feet off the ground from his hands tied over his head, making it difficult to breathe, and straining his already injured shoulders and back. He was bare chested and the room was fucking cold. If he hung there long enough, he would suffocate.
It was unpleasant to say the least.
There were also charming things siting on a table in the corner such as pliers, a hammer, various blades, and a car battery.
Oh joy.
Not much he could at the moment but hang limply and concentrate on getting a full breath of precious oxygen. Hours passed. At least it felt like hours, time doesn't exactly flow properly when you're suffering from a concussion, oxygen deprivation, and God knows what else.
Some angry Russian sounding stuff came from outside the door, though to be honest the sweetest love poem would sound angry in Russian to Clint. Languages really weren't his strong suit. He never quite got a hang of the use of emphasis when it came to Russian; put the emphasis on the wrong syllable and you end up saying something completely different.
The door slid open and in stepped the most stereotypical Russian dude Clint had ever encountered. He was bald with a burly mustache and lovely tattoos that marked him as a badass. He looked him up and down, evaluating the best way to go about making Clint's day even worse, taunting him in Russian. At least Clint though he was taunting him. He was either threating to break every bone Clint's body or making a racial slur about a china man.
"I can tell now," he choked out, "we are going to be great friends."
Russian dude drew a scary knife and slid it along Clint's neck; he murmuring menacingly in Russian.
Whatever dude.
Clint merely let his eyes slide shut and focused once again on dragging oxygen into his lungs. Apparently Russian Dude wasn't happy with that reaction, because a fist suddenly slammed into his already bruised ribs. Clint groaned loudly, using the little breath he had left to let out a string of curses.
The guy let out a throaty laugh. Clint cracked his eyes open to glower at the guy; whose smirk only grew in response. The guy spoke again in a mocking tone, patting Clint's cheek like he was a small child.
He spoke again; something that sounded somewhat like a question. Unable to understand what he said, Clint elected to merely glare back at him. It earned him a sharp back handed blow that snapped his head to the side and left a deep gash in his cheek from a bulky ring.
"I don't fucking speak Russian." He managed to gasp out and was rewarded with another blow to the face. Coppery blood filled his mouth as his teeth cut into his cheek, and he let out another groan.
"Fuck"
Russian Dude gave him a toothy grin. Hissing in pain, Clint slid his eyes closed once again. He felt the guy get closer and braced for another blow. Instead, he felt a knife grate against the rope that he was suspended from. It gave way and he crumpled to the cold ground like a sack of potatoes. He drew knees to his chest; coughing and gasping for air.
Big mistake buddy.
He rolled to his hands and knees, still gasping. Just give him a minute to catch his breath and…
A savage kick to his ribs sent him rolling onto his back. If his ribs weren't cracked before, they definitely were now. The dude let out another gleeful laugh followed by another incomprehensible taunt. He was really starting to piss Clint off. He took a minute to close in his eyes and draw in a solid deep breath. Then acted.
Pulling himself to his feet as quickly as he could manage, he dove into Russian Dude, grabbing him around the middle and smashing him back into the wall. The guy brought down an elbow on Clint's shoulder in an attempt to break his hold, but Clint held firm.
Not feeling up to a long drawn out fight, Clint went for the low blow putting as much force behind it as he could manage. Russian dude collapsed in to a wretched whimpering puddle.
Clint rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles, taking inventory of his injuries. His head was swimming from a concussion, cracked ribs, his back was killing him, and he was shaking from the cold making his bones ache even more. No way were they still in Sao Paulo, unless this was a meat locker.
He really wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a soft bed to collapse into, but that was a long way off.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. This is why concussions suck, they make everything foggy, and senses dulled reflexes sluggish. He turned to find Not-Natasha standing in the door way. Raven hair pulled back and clad in a skin tight cat 's shoulders sagged at the sight of her. This was just what he needed.
She was younger than Natasha, which made him a bit queasy, and couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds. She gave him a seductive someone's-been-a-naughty-boy look, and he felt like he might throw up.
There was a commotion down the hall that briefly drew her attention, and Clint took the opening and flew at her. He caught her off guard and knocked her back into the hall. She retaliated by nailing him in the ribs. Doesn't matter who you are or how much training you have, a cracked rib is a crack rib. He went down easy and she soon had him face down with an arm twisted behind him and her knee ground into his back.
Wonderful
Coming slowly out of a drugged stupor, Natasha woke to a sickly shade of grey. The color of the hopeless; this is what she was afraid would happen.
The good doctor stood over her with his rotten smile and greasy comb over; promising a lollipop if she behaved. She never wanted to kill anyone more than this man. He had her strapped into a chair, like what you might find at the dentist's, but with bindings for the wrists and ankles.
"I always behave." She growled.
He chuckled, "Ah. But sometimes you behave badly, no?"
She gave him a brief mock smile before her face quickly fell into an impassive expression. He gave her a predatory grin. Ignoring him, she fixed her gaze firmly on the wall in front of her; her mind furiously trying to work out what to do.
They knew exactly how dangerous she was, they did create make her what she is after all, and took every precaution. There were two guards at the door. Dangerous ones who had trained with her and knew her moves, not simply typical army trained soldiers. They would drug her before moving her, and no doubt that faithful little psychopath was somewhere nearby.
A needle slid into her arm releasing a fiery drug into her blood stream that burned all the way up her arm. Two more needles followed. One to make her weak and relax her muscles, one to make her mind fuzzy, and the third one was her regular cocktail.
A forth one would follow; luminescent blue to strip her of her memories and defiant attitude, and make her more receptive to programing and conditioning. It used to be routine for her after a mission. Slowly they let her go longer and longer, until she proved she'd be obedient. The perfect little soldier.
A cold clammy hand found her neck. He was standing behind her now, sliding his hand down her cheek to her neck and lower. She turned her head then and sank her teeth in as hard as she could. He screamed and yanked his arm away, but she didn't let up her vice grip and a chunk of skin tore away.
He fell back against the wall clutching his injured arm and staring at her wide-eyed. She spit out the chunk of flesh and met his gaze. Blood dripping from her lips, she gave him a dangerous scathing glare that made him pale visibly. Her eyes followed him ominously as he wrapped gauze around the wound and, muttering curses, left her alone in the room.
She could feel the drugs begin to take effect as her senses began to dull and her muscles became heavy. It was now or never.
Leaning forward she could just barely reach the leather restraint with her teeth. They shouldn't have left her alone.
The pressure on his arm was suddenly released and Not-Natasha's weight lifted from his back. He rolled over to find the actual Natasha, clad in only her underwear, dragging the girl back by the hair. She threw the chick face first into an unforgiving wall. She came back up snarling, with a broken nose and a bloodied face. She attacked Natasha like a rabid dog, hitting, clawing and biting.
Behind them, three other men had arrived on the scene, drawing their weapons and charging into the fray. Knocking the girl to the ground, Natasha turned on the new comers, closing the distance faster than was thought possible. She easily disarmed the first and put a bullet in him then lifted it to take out the next.
Clint drug himself to his feet just in time to intercept Not-Natasha as she renewed her attack, body checking her into a wall. She dug her nails into him, leaving deep gashes. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it till her face contorted in pain. She growled and stuck at him with her foot. Blocking the blow he spun her around, and locked her into a sleeper hold.
Clint looked up to find Natasha in trouble. The third guy had her pinned on the ground with his hands around her neck.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
The girl finally went limp, Clint tossed her aside without much thought and quickly moved to pull the guy off of her. He yanked the guy up and delivered a powerful blow to the guy's face. Wiping blood from his lip, the man smiled savagely at Clint.
He attacked like a tiger, crashing into Clint's ribs.
God this is getting old really fast!
Gritting his teeth, brought up a knee to the stomach and then slammed into his sternum. The guy staggered back with the wind knocked out of him. He moved to attack again but was stopped by the gunshot that rang out. A red stain blossomed on his chest and he rather dramatically let choked for air, fell down to his knees and then flat onto his face.
Clint slumped against the nearest wall with a sigh of relief, and moved to help Natasha from up from where she was still on the ground with the gun trained on the space the man had previously occupied. He pulled her to her, and she fell limply against his chest almost knocking him down.
"Natasha?"
He quickly checked her for injuries, but found nothing serious.
"Natasha, what's wrong?" Tilting her face toward him, he found a dull look in her eyes. Her head lulled to the side.
shit.
"hey! hey!" he shook her and slapped her gently on her cheek "Hey! Stay awake. Natasha! Come on."
Her eyes opened slightly, struggling to stay conscience.
"I…they uh…dru…drugged me."
"Come on…stay with me just long enough to get the hell out of her."
Taking the gun from her nearly limp hand he pulled her down the corridor. One other person cropped up as he searched for a way out, he fired without hesitation, putting them down before he even register the two weak and injured escapees.
He managed to pulled her up a couple flights of stairs from the basement of a rundown building and out the door in to the cold snow.
Snow. Right. Definitely not in Sao Paulo.
He'd figure out exactly where they were later, right now he was only concerned with putting as much distance between them and this place as possible, and finding a safe place to stop and lick his wounds so to speak.
Natasha stayed semi conscience just long enough for his to load her into a black SUV parked outside their prison. He found a blanket in the back and wrapped her in it, then picked a direction and drove till he couldn't physically drive anymore.