A/N: Well, Ironman 3 was amazing, finals are over and I've now read all 116 pages of the Memos from Fury tumblr page. It's been a decent week in Nerdville. Once again, thanks for your patience . . .

Clint and Natasha scrambled farther into the dimly lit rooms of the gallery. The blare of sirens and shouts of panicked guests faded into background noise as they made their way away from the atrium.

"Do you buy it?" said Clint at they passed through the Contemporary Japanese collection.

"What do you mean?"

"You spent plenty of time with István and he's clearly the PR guy for the group. Do you buy his spiel? Ignorance and justice and what not?"

"István certainly does have a flare for the dramatic. And, I don't know, maybe he believes it on some level. But I doubt any kind of grand vision is what's driving the TPE's plot. They wanted the public's attention, now they have it."

Clint nodded. "They've "justified" their cause, and how they're free to pursue their actual goals. Money, fame, power, you know, the usual."

"To make a statement, for revenger, as a warning, the list goes on."

"So how do we stop them?"

"Way ahead of you," said Natasha. She swung around one last corner and pressed her back flush to the door of a grimy stairwell. Gun draw, Natasha pushed it open and rushed into the stairwell. "Clear," she called. Clint scanned the gallery room letting his handgun follow his gaze. Satisfied they hadn't been spotted, he joined her.

"This is the service stairwell. It should lead directly to the loading bay," said Natasha as they scurried down the stairs.

"I can tell," Clint replied, crinkling his nose at the noxious smells of rubber and furnace oil filling the space. "Are you sure that's such a good idea though? If I'm remembering the blueprints correctly, there is literally no barrier between this staircase and where we're assuming there is a mass of heavily armed thugs."

"So?"

"Just saying."

"We're running out of time, Hawkeye. We don't have much of a choice."

Clint and Natasha quieted as the reached the bottom of the staircase and took their places on opposite sides of the door. Natasha waived several signals with her hand, and Clint nodded. Slowly, carefully, he pried the door open, enough to get a glimpse of the room beyond.

"What do you see?" said Natasha.

Clint darted his eyes around the loading bay, taking in as much detail as they could. The large concrete room. Empty wooden palettes in the corner. A worn forklift with peeling blue paint. Two hand trucks waiting by a wall. The ribbed metal door rolled up to the ceiling. The catering truck sitting outside, backed up to the cement platform jutting out from the loading bay.

"Twelve men. Three outside smoking by the truck. The other nine are waiting inside. No sign of any container that might be the material."

"They're waiting for orders," said Natasha. "Good. It means we didn't miss - " Natasha paused at the muffled whir of a motor. The stairs shook ever so slightly. "What is that?"

"This is the service staircase right? It services the freight elevator, which should be -" Clint glanced around at the bland cinderblock walls, trying to get his bearings, "- right behind this wall."

Natasha pressed her ear to the cold off-white paint. She could hear the creak of metal and groan of cables as the mechanisms worked to move the giant freight elevator. She looked at Clint. "Up or down?"

Clint pressed his eye back to the crack in the door. "I can't tell. Let me just -" He pressed his fingertips to the door and pressed, opening the door slightly more. Not quite there. Clint took a breath and pressed a little harder. Suddenly, an awful squeak rang out from the hinges, reverberating loudly around the dense concrete room. Clint managed to add two new details to his observations of the loading bay: the "up" arrow on the elevator illuminated with soft orange light, and the narrow beady eyes of one of András's thugs staring directly at him.

Clint grabbed the handle and dragged the door shut hard. Several bullets pinged against its steel surface and shouts rose on the other side. "We're made."

"Really, I couldn't tell."

"The elevator's headed up."

"Presumably to the third floor to retrieve the radioactive material from the restoration room."

Clint leaned backward, bracing one foot on the wall as he fought to keep András's guards from ripping the door open. The metal handle dug into his palms. "What's the plan?"

Natasha raised her weapon. "I buy you time, you buy me time."

Clint nodded. He let go of the door handle and the mass of brawny hands on the other side ripped it open so hard that the steel door crashed into the wall in sat in, taking a few finger bones with it. Natasha opened fire and the remaining guards scattered for cover. Several dropped on their way.

Natasha pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked futilely. Without thinking, her reflexes dropped the empty magazine and reached for another. She didn't find it. Clint had taken the extra ammunition clips because they were to bulky to fit in the holster beneath her dress. "Now!" she shouted.

Pressed into the tiny corner behind the door to avoid the gunfire, Clint used the few seconds the guards took to emerge from behind palettes and walls to dart forward and slam the door shut. "See you soon," Natasha called as she disappeared up the stairs.

Clint grabbed on to the end of the round metal railing paralleling the stairs. His dress shoes scraped for traction as he balanced on the rail. He seriously wished he has screwed the dress code and worn his combat boots. It was turning out to be that kind of party.

As the door burst open, Clint launched himself up and grabbed hold of one of the several pipes running overhead. He wrapped his hands around the largest, a thick pipe wrapped in white insulating cloth. As he hoisted his body on top, he fought not to break into a coughing fit. His movements kicked up a cloud of dust that must have been building up there for years. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the dust from his eyes. Through his watery vision, Clint watched the remaining guards burst through the door. They searched the barren stairwell, shouting furiously at each other.

The guards turned to leave. Clint held his breath above the dusty pipes as he watched them go. Suddenly, one of the men paused. He cocked his head to one side, then pinched the shoulder of his suit jacket and examined his finger. A crooked smile crept across his face as the guard slowly turned his eyes upward.

Clint pulled his limbs as close together as possible as the guard opened fire. The rest quickly followed suit. The pipe pinged with bullets and began to hiss as the rounds punctured it. Clint took as sniff. Not gas. Must be air conditioning, he thought. He quickly ducked his head over the side of the air duct and returned fire.

A bullet grazed by him, and Clint rolled onto the neighboring pipes. I hope these things can hold me, he thought as the copper pipes groaned under his weight. More bullets flew, and suddenly Clint felt a scorching heat on his back. Shit. Just as he was about to accept that he had been shot in the back, Clint noticed that the heat, though centered at one point on his back, raced in a perfect line down his body. He rolled back onto the air duct and laid down cover fire with he stretched his free hand back to the assortment of copper pipes. His fingers grazed the topmost pipe and he quickly jerked them away with a hiss. Using the sleeve of his jacket, Clint rubbed away the dust. Small red arrows ran across the copper in one direction. That'll work.

Clint leaned over the side of the air duct and emptied a clip at the thugs below. They ducked from the wild array of bullets. Clint reached up and clumsily untied his bow tie. He draped the black fabric over the pipe. Here goes nothing. He rolled back onto the copper pipes, wincing has he passed over the hot water pipe. With one last round of fire, Clint dropped his gun and tumbled over the edge of the pipe array. He grabbed onto the ends off the bow tie and hoped his weight would drag the pipe down. It didn't.

A thug approached his dangling legs and Clint kicked him hard in the face, shattering his nose. Another came and Clint wrapped his legs around the man's neck and watched him crumple to the floor. And Natasha wasn't even here to see that, he sighed. The remaining guards were regaining their bearings, and, more importantly, re-aiming their firearms. Clint flexed his arms and hauled his body up toward the ceiling. Bullets flew past the space where his legs had been just as his feet touched the pipes. Bracing his shoes on the neighboring pipes, Clint kicked hard. The copper pipe broke free of it's joint with a loud groan. Scalding water gushed from the break, sending the thugs screaming. The two who managed to flee into the loading bay began stripping off their clothing, trying to save themselves from the burning water now locked in the fibers. Clint swung from side to side to gain momentum, intending to swing himself over the pool of water and onto the dry concrete. As he went, the bow tie gave way from heat and wear, and Clint splashed down in the water. He leapt away as fast as he could, and went after the two fleeing guards. Distracted by their own scalding clothes, they didn't even register Clint coming toward them. "Sorry boys," he said as the second man his the concrete with his belt in his hands, "but I really didn't want to see that."

As soon as he was through, Clint dried his own hands on his trousers. His red skin still stung from where he'd hit the water. Following the downed thugs' lead, Clint kicked off his shoes and peeled away his sopping sock. The cool damp concrete was welcomed relief on his pink feet. Clint gave one of his dress shoes a vindictive little kick. Yup. Should have worn my combat boots.