Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
"Barton, you sure?" The same agent turned around to say to him, waving his hand of cards.
"You've asked me five times already, Lans."
"It's four hours to Roswell. You're really just gonna sit in a corner of the Quinjet?"
The agent beside Lans slapped his arm for him to make his move, and he turned back to his card game.
What fun were jet rides when you couldn't pilot?
The secondhand smoke in the small cavity surely would've suffocated the fifteen or so agents on board, if one of them hadn't, against protocol, turned on the air filter. Still the acrid smell lingered. Mixed with the hyena noises these agents had dissolved to, Clint wanted to jump off the jet.
At long last they landed. Coulson met them once they walked out into the outskirts of Roswell. "accommodations are minimal, agents. You guys are free for the rest of the day. I'm leaving you one truck; sleep in it if you want. Find a motel. Someone's doorsteps. Whatever. Tomorrow they'll bring in research and equipment. Drive them over to the crater site."
At that he took the only car they had and drove off.
The next morning another jet landed with the equipment Coulson had mentioned. In groups or alone, the agents reunited at the meeting place and hauled everything into the truck. Then it was on to Puente Antiguo.
The sleepy town was flatter than the blades of Natasha's fancy daggers and a tenth as sharp. The neighborhood they passed by looked on the verge of sleep, moved along by the occasional older residents and families. Business—what little of it existed—drawled, the houses crouched in squat, identical boxes the same color as the distant plains, and dust clouded the air with the slightest disturbance of feet, so when S.H.I.E.L.D paraded through the streets they went in a sandstorm, and for a minute or two drew the attention of the town's not very attentive residents.
A hammer had enough impact for a crater? Clint didn't believe it until the seventy yards diameter met him, dipping down in a steep slope. A number of S.H.I.E.L.D trucks and personnel were already present. The agents stopped the truck and began to unload its contents. Coulson waved his walkie-talkie to Clint.
"I'll take a few of your group with me to fetch some research," Coulson said. "You take the others and help our people clear out the locals, then set up perimeter and base."
"Will do."
"I'm putting you in charge here. Make sure everything runs smoothly."
Coulson waved to a facility truck and a few vans, and rode off with four of the Malibu agents. Clint turned to the other expectant faces around him and cursed.
A strong cocktail of warm beer, cigarette smoke, urine and barbecue invaded his nostrils as he skidded down the slope. The grimy, flannel-shirted locals stared. One of them pointed at the bow across his back.
"You're Clint Barton?" A voice said behind him.
Clint turned around. "That's me." A man—a neanderthal, more like— loomed over him, what, seven feet tall?
"Name's Charles. Charles Andersen. Head of security. Help me get these men out of here. They're dragging out our operation."
Though it didn't look like he needed much help. With a voice like thunder and the thick baton in his hand he only had to walk around to herd the civilians out of the crater. When they didn't pick up their trash he threw it at them, empty cans, barbecue sauce bottles, even an icebox.
While he went about that, Clint approached the center of the crater and crouched down next to the hammer. A blocky, weathered thing, it was, bordered with intricate patterns, the handle and strap bound in red leather.
Charles' shadow cloaked over him. "It won't budge no matter what, those crazy bitches hooked it to a pick-up truck. The whole back part flew off but the thing stayed. It's like magic."
"There is no magic."
"Yeah? Well I don't know what then, 'cause that's not normal."
As the morning faded into noon a mesh fencing went up around the edge of the crater. The facility itself consisted of tunnels of metal rings, draped over with flimsy sheets of plastics. These tunnels snaked and intersected, and at their ends they attached wheeled-in cabins. The hammer lay undisturbed in the heart of the constructions, observed from three levels of scaffolding around an eight-feet radius.
Coulson came back with his agents and started to unload their cargo: a telescope, at least a dozen strong boxes, backpacks, binders, and some other junk from the back of a van. One agent pulled out a battered iPod.
"Where'd you go, a goodwill?" Clint asked.
"An astrophysicist."
"Did you just... take everything they have?"
"They have all the data and images on the wormhole the hammer came through from, we have to start our research somewhere."
At night the tunnels glowed like fluorescent lights. Vehicles drove around like they've been doing all day, guards patrolled the perimeter. Inside the people didn't rest, either. Every person capable of reading a graph on a screen and understanding a few scientific terms gathered data on the hammer and the local atmospheric changes.
Clint stood on the roof level of the central platform. The night breeze had chilled his skin and left his lips chapped, and his jacket was little help. The sky flashed weak threads of lightning, but the thunder never came.
He turned to face the dots of people skittering around, the almost invisible wall of mesh fencing, the mountains beyond, then at the truck by the main building where they stored the firearms. Coulson had convinced him to leave his bow there since it wasn't his usual collapsible one, and the compound was too bulky to be dragged around. But then why would they specifically call him to this operation if he couldn't carry his weapons?
Another ten minutes passed before the crackling and writhing of electricity came again. The moon illuminated weakly a few clumps of dark clouds. The wind grew insistent. Clint zipped up his jacket and crossed his arms over his chest.
A high screech jerked from an alarm behind him. He turned. The alarm lights pulsed red against pale plastic. Security breach on the first night. Looked like the hammer lived up to its fuss and attention.
Clint stayed put, scanned the murky darkness through his night vision goggles and tried to single out the invader. There, slinking behind a supply truck, sprinting across the tracks when the road cleared, came his suspect. When a sliver of light spilled onto the man's form a lock of blond hair flashed. He clambered from the dirt onto a tunnel entrance.
A few bodies clashed against him from the other end. The man met them head on and threw them down; tumbled down the guards coming at him like a pile of puppies. The plastic blurred out most of the action, but Clint could still track his movements. The man steadily advanced towards the center of the facility.
The long-overdue thunder joined the lightning, and once it started it refused to stop. A drop of rain plopped onto Clint's nose, then another on his right cheek. A downpour followed within seconds. The powdery dirt absorbed the water and turned into brownie mix.
"I need eyes up high, with a gun." Coulson said into his radio.
About time. Clint climbed down the railing, maneuvering the lower levels like a ladder, and tore out the structure. Mud splattered onto his pants. Once he scrambled up the armory truck he looked over his options. Coulson had specified a gun, but soon as Clint spotted his bow...
Clint sprinted for the crane bucket outside and threw in the bow before hopping on himself. A riiiiiiip behind him. He turned. Gaping hole on the side of a tunnel. One of their men sprawled in the mud. The crane began to lift, and his little cage wobbled and swayed. Clint adjusted the bow in his hand and waited.
"Barton, talk to me." He could barely make out Coulson's voice.
Clint nocked his arrow and drew the bowstring. "You want me to slow him down, sir?" He aimed at the structure below, waiting for the trespasser. "Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"
"I'll let you know."
The man was a few feet from the edge of the platform now. A shadow charged at him from the side—a security guard—and threw a punch at the blond's chest, knocking him to the floor.
Out of all things, the intruder looked amused. He staggered up and returned the punch to the guard's jaw. The back-and-forth blows continued. The guard hurled him out the end of a tunnel, bringing the fight out to the open.
Clint swung around on his perch and aimed for the man's leg. Coulson might not want him dead.
The two men rolled around the mud. The security had him in a headlock. The man elbowed him in the stomach until he let go. The blond pushed away from him. They scrambled to their feet. When the guard came into range the intruder kicked with his legs and brought them both to the ground. He added another kick to the guard's head before smiling in glee.
"You better call it Coulson, cause I'm starting to root for this guy."
The man tore open the plastic covering fencing the hammer and stood over it.
"Last chance, sir." Clint drew his arrow back.
"Wait. I want to see this."
The man gripped the hammer's leather handle and pulled. Not surprisingly, it didn't give. He braced himself there for minutes, growling and howling as he tried to lift the thing, and after realizing that he couldn't do it, he tilted his face up to the sky with a look of hurt and disbelief, almost as if he couldn't fathom the reason why. Did he even notice Clint hanging there in the crate?
Clint put down his bow and signaled the crane driver to drop him down.
He looked at the stranger one last time before he disappeared out of view. His kneeling figure was submissive, the fight cleared out of him.
Morning came with a cloudy sky that draped low to the ground. Rain evaporated from the sand. The holes in the tunnels were patched and the guards forced onto a double shift drifted like ghosts.
A "Dr. Selvig" came to retrieve the intruder (who apparently went by the name Donald Blake), claiming him as his colleague and one of the scientists S.H.I.E.L.D had looted the research from. Selvig's story was unconvincing to say the least and Blake's ID turned out to be a fake. Coulson permitted them to go anyway, but not without a few shadows to monitor their activities.
Coulson rushed out shortly after noon with half a dozen cars. Later, one of the vehicles came back and an agent hurried inside. Agent Blake and a few others came out with him and they took several more cars. They drove below Clint's platform. Blake's window rolled down.
"Barton, in the car with me." He pointed a thumb at the backseat.
Clint swung his legs off the railing. "Emergency, sir?"
"Something like that, I'll explain on the road."
Once he was in the car, however, he received no explanations. Blake chattered to Tomson beside him and Clint more or less picked up the story: the monitors had detected another site with the same energy readings northwest of their camp, and Coulson wanted to investigate.
They arrived fifteen miles later. There was no crater this time; instead, an intricate circle of designs burned into the earth. White-clad researchers flocked around it. Coulson squatted down beside them.
"Instructions, sir?" Clint said behind him.
"Keep an arrow nocked and your eyes open. Don't shoot unless I say so," Coulson said, and resumed his previous conversation.
A half hour passed. A dark cluster of clouds gathered above them, growing by the second. The agents tilted their guns up. They looked more of a threat than anything else at the moment.
The clouds began to spiral down. An urgent breeze pulled at everyone's feet.
"Coulson..." Clint gripped his bow tighter.
Around him, a few agents darted their eyes between the sky and the group by the research spot, waiting for a command. The thick tube continued to descend. A fine mist of disturbed sand spun and settled into the creases of clothes. Clint zipped his jacket to the top and covered his nose with the collar.
Coulson walked over to him while keeping his eyes on the sky. "On my command." He patted Clint's bow.
The swirling storm touched ground a heartbeat later. The turbulence it created threatened to topple everyone over. Clint squinted against the flying debris and pulled his bowstring back.
The dust unveiled a giant, humanoid figure, standing in the dust clouds, its metal covering glinting silver in the sun.
The agent next to Clint inhale sharply.
No one dared move. Gun barrels trained on the newcomer.
Coulson came out from the car he sheltered behind and broke the stalemate.
"Is that one of Stark's?" Sitwell asked, and handed him a megaphone.
"I don't know. That guy never tells me anything." Coulson took the megaphone and walked into the open. Sitwell followed a step behind.
The stranger clunked towards them, its footsteps heavy and loud.
"Hello. You're using unregistered weapons technology," Coulson said into the megaphone. "Identify yourself."
The silver armor froze at the sound of his voice. The piece over its face slid down. The entire suit flared an intense orange. Like flames. Pushing to bypass the gaps between armor plates.
Clint's muscles twitched in alarm.
The machine resumed its walk, picking up its pace. Coulson stumbled back.
"AGENTS!"
The crew scattered with panicked cries. A beam of fire shot out at the closest car and reduced it to a rain of sparks. Then it turned to a car at the back. Anyone inside had no chance of living.
Clint stayed put, aimed at what he thought was a chink in the armor and fired the arrow. It lodged between the metal plates as he expected. The explosives went off. What was not expected, however, was the way the pieces came together again after the explosion had unraveled them. He released another arrow and the same thing happened. The plating stuck like magnets.
The glowing head turned in his direction. Clint scrambled to get out of the way. This was beyond even him now. His attacks as much damage as a pinprick.
The automaton fired. The car behind him exploded to pieces. A searing heat followed and tore at the back of his jacket as he ran. Fire burned through the flame-resistant material like tissue paper. Water welled up in his eyes from the pain and he dodged flying car parts through blurred vision.
A dismantled car door slammed into his back. He fell face first to the ground. The familiar sensation that came with a damaged bone hit him. Rackets of pain pulsed through his torso and he gasped into the sand, struggling for a breath of air.
The vehicles perished in less than a minute, all turned into charred, smoking junk.
Clint held still. Back trauma was bad; he could still feel his lower half and he intended to keep on feeling. He slowly twisted his neck around to look over the mess on his shoulders. The bloody, mottled skin stung. His jacket and shirt flapped in shreds. This was not how he had expected this assignment to turn out.
The heavy steps of their attacker faded, replacing it the hissing of broken vehicles. The sharp smell of gas and smoke lingered in the air.
Clint swallowed the bile in his throat and waited for someone to find him, if there's anyone left at all.
"Barton? Can you hear me?" A few pairs of footsteps thumped against the ground. A shadow fell over his face and he rolled his eyes up. Coulson knelt next to him, miraculously unscathed. "I told you not to shoot. You should have ran while you had time!"
Clint kept his mouth shut and stared at the ground.
Coulson sighed. "We'll get you someone. Don't move."
Sitwell crouched down next. "Anything broken? Or is it just the burns?"
"My back's busted for sure. Maybe my ribs." The grit got into his mouth and he raised his head to spit it out. "Who else is breathing?"
Sitwell looked around. "You, me, Coulson, Blake, Bryson, Kennette, and Lans."
"That's all?" He gave a humorless chuckle that sent a jolt of pain through his lungs. They had thirty people less than ten minutes ago. "Did you check the bodies?"
"There's none." Sitwell shook his head. "If you're not alive you're turned to ashes."
"Damn."
Communication took a while to get up. Even then the signal was choppy. Leaving Clint with the newly arrived paramedics, Coulson drove one of the fresh cars with the unharmed agents and sped towards the direction their attacker had headed in.
The medics lifted Clint onto a stretcher as carefully as they could, but still the movement made him squeeze his eyes shut. Once settled, they fed an IV into his veins to take out the pain. Another tube dripped a pouch of light-yellow liquid. A nurse flitted about his arms and cut his shirt loose with a few snips of her scissors.
"Hey." She greeted when she saw Clint staring at the solution, and coated his skin with a sticky clear gel from a tube. "We're gonna keep you in the stretcher to minimize further damage until they can get you proper medical attention."
"I'm fine. You can't put me in a hospital anyway."
"You're returning to Central." The nurse wiped down the scratches on his face with a warm towel and turned to attend to another person.
—
Coulson visited him in the infirmary a few hours later. "Guess who our friend Donald is?" He asked, and handed Clint a cup of water.
"Who?"
"Not from this planet. I knew from his looks that he wasn't your regular guy, but I didn't expect to see him flying around the sky."
"What happened to that giant metal thing?" The drugs had muddled his thinking enough for him to pay no attention to what Coulson had just said.
"It's called the Destroyer. Thor—that's Donald, killed it, deactivated it. Whatever. I sent people to bring it back."
Clint nodded. "Are they gonna be regular visitors?"
"It's likely. We need to better prepare ourselves when they do. It's not if they'll attack anymore. It's when."
"What's Fury going to do about it? Line up his Avengers?"
"Actually, we're switching the focus to weapons against future invasions." Coulson pulled two packs of donuts from his coat pocket and dangled them in front of him. "Chocolate or vanilla? I've been trying to decide."
"Vanilla."
Coulson handed him the package and ripped open his own while humming a little tune.
"Did you just buy this?" Clint asked.
"Nope. Yesterday while I was filling up gas. I beat up two robbers."