Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
A/N: I will try to finish up this story before July, as I'm uncertain to the amount of time I will have to write from July to early August, and I really don't want to put this fic on halt when I'm so close to finishing. But I don't want to resolve to rushing, so that's why the schedule right now is kind of floating around.
Chapter 29
Something else had drained out of her: she didn't feel anything.
Was this her mutation of primal instincts—this retreat of the internal senses, replacing it a pre-made clockwork that succeeded in but moving her joints—encoded into her? Was this design or improvisation? Did her body even know how to improvise for something like this?
The hollow floor clanged like cymbals. Her footsteps pounded like drums. And one, and two. And one, and two. And one, and two, and three, and four. And one.
With her eyes still red and itching she kept to the sub-levels. The Detention was there, anyway, and these dim walkways that reminded her of subway tunnels allowed for speed. He would prefer them, too.
And one. And two. And three. And four. distant boom above her floor. She'd crash into him like a train, finish him quickly, the smoothness of her movements unaffected, her mind empty. She had it mapped out to the last bend of the tracks.
A percussion of heavy boots ahead. She softened her own steps. Something flashed onto the walkway she walked on.
And one.
As soon as she saw the back of his figure she stiffened. She couldn't remember a thing about him. Not a word he had ever said to her, not a clue about the way he had ever touched her. Not a substantial moment in life that he had spent with her. She waited, waited for some recognition to enter, waited for a fault in the clockwork, a trip in her strides. Nothing. Her mind wanted nothing to do with him.
And one. And two. Pick up the tempo. And three and four. Coulson's tranquilizer was forgotten. The blur of him cleared: plain cloth quiver on his back studded with arrows, bow swinging in hand. She didn't try to hide her presence then, he already knew she was there—his walk had slowed.
When she advanced close enough to touch him he turned. Arm stretched straight, bow in front of his body. Black arrow aimed at her. Blue pupil-less eyes. She grabbed the bow with both hands and pulled it to the side. The arrow missed. She tried to twist the bow from his grip, but he twisted, too, flowing with her moves and jerked his elbow towards her. She dodged and lost the bow. He turned and swung the weapon at her like a staff. When he came at her again she kicked him in the jaw and, grappling the edge of the platform, swung herself down under and surfaced on its other side. He was leaning over, looking for her as expected. Her next kick toppled him backwards again. He whipped another arrow at her and—missed. She used a pole to swing herself onto the adjacent walkway. He jumped onto it after her.
Back to close combat. The damned bow slapped down again and again, her barely skirting away. Slamming horizontal for her nose; her hands shot up to protect her face. His bowstring wedged its silver razor into her fists and he yanked the bow backwards. The string stretched. Its elasticity brought her catapulting to him. Before her head slammed into his like he wanted she raised her hands higher. Her braceleted wrists smashed into the bow. Fingers snaked around the grip and she tried pushing him back with it. His strength overthrew hers and he shoved her back against the railing.
She drove a knee between his legs. He growled and loosened. She slapped him, and as he tumbled back the bow was finally in her possession.
He regained his footing and slid something from his belt into his hand.
Silver. Even with the floral-etched hilt deeply hidden in his grasp she could make out who it belonged to; so many times her own fingers had glided over that tapered, willow blade.
The clockwork faltered. The gears staggered against her heart.
He smiled. Not his own smile but one that she was well-familiar with.
Then he moved.
Spring steel arced and sliced. Her hands shot up to deflect its hissing edge. He had no tricks to play with the knife. Strike. Deflected. Recover. Strike again. At the fifth slash she caught his striking forearm, yanked it straight, and used her other hand to snap it against the joint. He made a garbled noise. With his wrist he flicked the knife to his other hand and slashed at her. This time she caught it, locked both her arms around his and clenched it close to her body so that he couldn't move any joint. He rammed her back against iron. Stiff hand closed over her hair, clawing her scalp; snapping her head back so her neck glistened, pale and exposed, and the blade tip licked the light by her throat. She panted hard. Her legs flailed beneath her, trying to trip him but having trouble balancing by themselves. She dug her teeth into his knifed arm until her jaws hurt.
He snarled. The knife dropped. The hand on her hair jumped away. Still securing his arm in hers, she flipped over, using her weight to force his body to bend. With her other hand on the bottom of his quiver she slammed him headfirst in the railing.
He gave a sputtering groan and struggled into a half-kneeling position. The sweat on his forehead glowed. His eyes darkened, dazed.
"N'tasha?"
Clockwork screeched to a halt.
She knocked him out with a blow to the face.
He fell on his back, motionless, his mouth slightly opened. Natasha crouched beside him and put her hand to his cheek. His skin held little warmth and was clammy with perspiration. Her fingers shook.
"Send a medic team," she said into her earpiece to whoever might listen. "This is Romanoff. I've got Barton."
"Coming your way," an unknown agent replied. "How bad is he?"
"Unconscious. Don't know how stable he'd be once he wakes up."
While she waited for the medics to come Natasha walked up to the knife—her knife—that Clint had dropped. She could, should get rid of it, along with the rest, still resting in their little box in the New York base. She had no use for it. How could she give it back to Clint? She could find a blasted-open section of the Helicarrier and throw it into the ocean. Yet when she picked it up she couldn't bring herself to, so she quickly slipped the dead weight into her belt. The medics had arrived.
Except they weren't medics. No white coats and no equipment. They were deck-hands and a few patrol guards, looking in need to medical attention themselves. One of them carried a thick syringe and approached Clint.
"Wait, what is this?" Natasha asked, blocking the man's path.
"We can't risk anything when he comes around."
"That's not what I'm talking about. I asked for combat medics."
"They're all busy." The man tried to get past her.
"You still can't use that." She snatched his syringe and tossed it down to the level below.
He shrugged, and with another deck-hand, prepared to take Clint away.
It was then that Fury's voice came on her earpiece, oddly soft.
"Agent Coulson is down."
A systematic reply from the unnamed agent came seconds later. "A medical team is on its way to your location."
"They're here." A long pause. "They called it."
What should she feel? All she could hear was Coulson calling her to action as she had curled up, unresponsive. Romanoff, do you copy? Where are you? Navigation center's receiving an unhealthy amount of grenades. Please come. Do you copy? Natasha?
She followed the band of guards away, concentrating to dim that voice in her head.
Next chapter will be very soon.
Also: I did a drawing/painting of Nat a few days ago on my blog (tagged/drawing. Link on profile.) Would be cool if you pay me a visit :)