A/N: Hi everyone. I know I've been absolutely awful about updating these past few weeks (cough cough, months). The semester ends next week, and after that I'll have no excuse not to write more. I'm so sorry I've fallen so behind. Also, it's entertaining to read about fictional terrorists and superheroes, but please keep the people of Boston, and all those world-wide who have been affected by terrorist activities in your thoughts.
Anyway. . . without further ado:
A nervous murmur rose up in the crowd as the party guests stood frozen in the blackness. On the second floor, Natasha pressed close to the cool stone column guarding the doorway to the balcony. She could feel the pressure in Clint's grip on her shoulder. He hated the dark. He didn't fear it, for a fear of the dark is a fear of the unknown. They lived in the unknown, in a shadow world few people even know exists. No, what bothered Clint was that in the dark he lost his edge. The angles, the sight lines, the perception that gave him his name, it all vanished. In the solid blackness, he wasn't Hawkeye. He was just a solider.
Natasha reached up and squeezed his hand, as if she knew the thoughts running through his mind. Maybe she did. She might have even preferred the dark, the ambiguity, the way she could fade into the blackness. "Two guards on the balcony. Let's get them before they have a chance to spot us," said Natasha in a whisper so soft that Clint could barely hear her inches away.
Knowing he couldn't do the same, he nodded, hoping Natasha would feel the tiny shift in his motion. She gave his hand another squeeze in reply.
Natasha stood up slowly, running her free hand along the cool groove of the stone column. She took Clint's hand away from her shoulder and held it in her own. Natasha closed her eyes; they were no use now. She let her other senses take over. Every inch of her skin became hypersensitive. Her fingers registered the tiny grooves left in the column, the faintest trace of sweat on Clint's palm. Her ears pricked up, attuning themselves to the her heartbeat and the sound of Clint's breathing in the darkness.
She pulled on Clint's hand and he obeyed, rising slowly to join her. He let her lead him slowly out into the darkness. Each step made no noise, each footfall landed inaudibly on the tile floor. Clint felt like he was a ghost. Natasha felt safe.
A confused murmur began to rise from the crowd as Clint and Natasha made their way farther onto the balcony. Eyes still closed, Natasha stopped moving. She could feel the guard in front of her. Enough years of martial arts training had taught her as much. With enough practice great fighters acquire a proximity sense, the ability to sense their opponent's presence. Natasha had learned quicker than most. She could feel him, feel the energy given off by his body, hear his breath, feel his heartbeat.
Natasha used her arms to guide Clint up beside her, leading him as far from her as she could without loosing contact with him. From what she'd managed to glimpse before the lights went out, he would be right behind the other guard.
Before they could move to strike their targets in the dark, Natasha tensed. Clint could feel her arm go stiff in his palm. Something was wrong. Someone was . . .
The emergency lights, set every few feet in a track along the floor, flickered to life. Their dim bluish glow cast six shadows across the balcony. There. Even Clint could feel the body behind him, hear the clip of his shoes, the raspy drawl of his breath. The click of his gun.
A second later, the thud of another light echoed around the atrium. Horrified shouts and whispers cascaded through the crowd as the spotlights that had illuminated the István's speech earlier that evening sprang to life again.
The wide beams cut through the blackness, making the stage glow once more with pools of light. The upper beam had been repositioned to shine on the wall above the platform. As sheet of plastic like a projector transparency or a theater gel had been thrown across the spotlight, projecting a stylized image of a red hand over the granite and canvases behind it. The white silhouette of a long-tailed demon cut through the center of the palm. Natasha couldn't help but shake she head. Many people in the crowd probably though the image was a Satan, but István was too clever for that. Natasha recognized the figure as Minos, the demon who determines to which circle of hell each sinner belongs in Dante's Inferno. Someone's feeling self-righteous today, Natasha thought as she glimpsed the scene unfolding on the floor.
The rest of the lights pooled on the stage illuminating the scene that held the guests in panicked attention. A figure stood on stage before the podium. The black knit of a ski mask obscured all but his eyes and mouth. The man had dragged another up onto the podium, held there at gunpoint. His hostage: István Szabo.
Clint's fist tightened by his side. István's disheveled hair and rumpled tie fit perfectly with his portrayal of an unsuspecting hostage, but Clint knew how he really received those marks. It angered him to think that he and Natasha had actually helped Szabo along by saving him five minutes in front of the mirror. His thugs must have roused him just in time for Szabo to appear in this little stunt. Very clever, he thought. Who will suspect him now?
The scene on the ground flooded Clint and Natasha's eyes for the second the lights turned on, then they quickly diverted their attention to the problem at hand. Two guards in front, two behind. Luckily for them, all four were still processing the peculiar scenario at hand. Their instant of hesitation gave Clint and Natasha time to strike. Clint swung around to face the bulky man behind him, wrenching his arm away and throwing a punch to his face. Natasha dropped down out of range of her attacker's blow, then swept her leg in a wide circle, knocking him down to the floor. Then her second opponent, the guard who had been standing in front, jumped on her back, yanking her sore shoulders back and clamping her arms by her sides.
"Ladies and Gentleman," the masked man's voice rang out over the microphone. "This is quite a party, isn't it? I almost feel bad cutting it short. Almost. You see, as you people mill about in your gowns and tuxedos, swirling your wine and musing at this useless artwork, the world is screaming trying to teach you a lesson. All the chaos, the pain, the suffering, it's not enough to make you think, enough to make you care. You are perfectly content to relegate the ills of this world onto paint and canvas, fun to admire for a night and then easily tucked away or hung on a wall for later. You will be content no longer."
Clint whipped around and drove an elbow at the front guard's nose. The first man charged and Clint threw his leg up in a kick. His dress shoe struck with a dull thwack, sending the man reeling back.
As one guard held Natasha's arms, the other advanced on her. She shot both of her legs out at the approaching figure's chest. The force of the kick sent her backwards and she used the momentum to kick her body up, slamming her captor against the floor. She wriggled from his arms and blocked a punch from the second attacker as she flew to her feet.
Clint dove down on one knee, brushing his ear against the front attacher's him and wrapping his arms around the back of the man's knees. He pulled back, buckling the guard's knees and sending him falling to the ground. Clint landed on top of him and quickly bound up one of the man's arms in a shoulder lock. Before the joint could pop, the second attacker grabbed Clint by the jacket and hauled him away, landing a solid blow to Clint's face as he went.
On the atrium floor, people breathed out horrified whispers as the masked figure pressed his handgun harder against István's temple."The hand of justice in fast approaching. Are you ready? From what I've seen here tonight, I would say not. Our demands are simple, our goal straightforward. As of tonight, Hungary is on its way to true society, true freedom. Unfortunately, the road to the greatest change is never a painless one. How much you must suffer before you learn, well, my friends, that is up to you."
The second guard tried frantically to guard his face and chest as Natasha threw jab after jab at him. Time to end this, she thought. As the guard threw a return punch, Natasha slid out of its path and caught the guard's outstretched fist. She pulled him forward and slipped her leg into his path of motion. He crashed down hard and she drove her knee into his stomach. With another strike to the back of the head, he collapsed, unconscious.
Clint blocked a second blow to the head as the second guard ripped him up and spun him away from the man on the floor. Clint planted his feet and pushed into the guard's momentum. Their roles reversed and Clint let him continue spiraling around, then let go so the guard would crash into the other thug scrambling to pull himself off the ground. Both men crashed down. The bottom guard laid still. The top man tried to stand, and Clint rushed forward and slammed the man's head into the balcony's stone banisher.
The last remaining guard charged at Natasha. She let him slide past her, then spun around behind him and slipped her slender arm across his neck. She pulled back, and the guard's bulky form crashed to the ground. She and Clint ducked into the shadows to watch the gala floor.
"The time for ignorance is long over," said the masked speaker. "You have been warned." The lights cut out again, and when they returned, all traces of the man and the TPE agents were gone. István sat stunned on the edge if the stage. After a moment of stupefied silence, the crowd below erupted into a panic. Gala workers shouted over the noise, attempting to organize the guests and coral them in the atrium until the authorities arrived. The shouts and anxious voices nearly drowned out the chorus of sirens even as a fleet of first responder swarmed to the Galleria. The once-dark skylights flashed bright as a helicopter came to hover overhead.
"Well that was interesting," Clint said as they approached the four bodies lying unconscious before them. He and Natasha bent down, searching each guard, confiscating their weapons, ammunition.
Natasha nodded. "The second two guards must have come to take out the first pair during the blackout. The two men stationed here must not have been in on András's plan tonight, and the second team was sent to make it look like the TPE knocked out all security personnel."
"But they weren't expecting the two of us to get in the way," said Clint. He looked through the slots cut in the banister as the crowd changed the tone of their murmurs. Policemen with bullhorns cut through the noise, shouting orders at the crowd. Uniformed officers began waving the patrons toward the door. "Damn," Clint muttered.
"What?"
"Natasha, is the radioactive material still here?"
"I assume so, why?"
"Because what's the first thing the cops are going to do?"
"Sweep the building."
"No," he said. "First they need to evacuate it. If István has anything hidden in here that he doesn't want found, what better way to move it than in the flood of people about to leave this place?"
Natasha snapped her fingers. "At the staff meeting, one of the aids mentioned having to find a replacement truck for the catering company. What do you bet István has the original, and is about to load it with something very sour."
"Tasha, if he wants to leave with the rest of the evacuees. . ."
"Then they might already be on their way out into the city."
"Well then we'd better hurry." With one last look toward the gallery floor, they turned and sprinted back into the gallery.