András braced his other hand against the side of the gun to catch the reverberation. His index finger rested anxiously against the trigger. Zoltán Varga circled around the crowd of guards, his own gun rattling in his hand as he flexed his wrist. He pinched Natasha's cheeks together twisted her to face him. "I would have preferred Robin Hood over here, but you'll do just fine." Varga let go of her face and lifted his gun up to Natasha's forehead. "You might want to back up boys. This is about to get messy."
The last few guards removed their clawing grip from Clint and Natasha's shoulders. They stepped back into the circle and braced their hands on their weapons, ready to strike if one of their enemies so much as flinched. The guards lined up opposite Szabo and Varga marched to one side or the other, moving out of the path of the bullets and brain matter that were soon to come.
Clint never took his eyes away from András. "Do it," he spat. Szabo's arms trembled with rage.
Natasha flicked her eyes around. So many guns trained on them. So many guards waiting to tear them apart. So many bloody, bruised, split, fractured faces waiting for them to die. So much, so much, so much. Too much to process, too much to fear, too much to regret. Natasha's lip began to quiver. A tear pooled in her eye and spilled over onto her dust-covered cheek. "Wait." She flicked her eyes to the ground and another tear splashed onto the tar. The gritty asphalt dug into her knees and tears continued to roll one after another down her face.
Varga flared one corner of his lip in a breathy laugh. Szabo snapped his eyes away from Clint. "What is it?" he barked. Varga waived his chin at Natasha. Szabo took a step closer to her and studied the terror and panic in her eyes. He shook his head. "You are getting less and less impressive by the hour, Agent Romanoff. And to think, I heard such wonderful tales. The infamous Black Widow, capable of getting whatever or whoever she wants, and all wrapped up in the body of a Siren. You disappoint, my dear. You should have left this business to the men."
"Please," Natasha stammered though trembling lips. "Just . . . just let us say goodbye."
"You waste my time, little girl."
"Clint there's something I need to say to you."
Szabo gritted his teeth and trained his gun back on Clint. "Ten, nine, eight . . ." he began to count down, drawing in a steadying breath as he prepared savor the moment of revenge.
"I just . . . I need to know . . ." Natasha trembled. Szabo curled his lip in disgust. One last tear ran down Natasha's chin and she snapped up head up. Her lips sat still, her face completely void of emotion. "Up or down?"
Clint kept his eyes on Szabo. "Like you even have to ask."
Natasha took the three fist-sized metal disks clasped between her fingers and pressed the center buttons. Distracted by her little sob show, neither Szabo nor a single of his guards had seen her slip them from her belt. With a hiss, the disks began spewing thick white smoke, and Natasha threw them in a circle around her and Clint. By the time András and Zoltán had time to react, their captives had vanished in the smoke.
Natasha crouched low, her chin almost touching the asphalt. In a split second she changed direction, tumbling to the side as a hail of bullets rained down on the place she had just vacated. The sharp gun flashes illuminated the cloud of smoke, increasing it's blinding effect. This smoke was formulated solely to shield, not to debilitate, so Natasha was able to breath easily beneath its shroud. Scratching her wrists along a blade from her tool belt, the rope severed and fell away. She braced her bare fingertips on tar and cocked her head up, staying low to the ground. Natasha advanced toward the ring of guards, sweeping one leg out in front of her then twisting her torso and sweeping the other. With her eyes closed for comfort in the blinding smoke, Natasha's proximity sense alerted her as she approached the line of guards. She repositioned her body and took a breath.
Natasha barreled into the guards, sweeping one leg, then the other out along the ground in front of her. Angry, confused shouts called out around her adding to the cacophony of groans and gunfire filling the street. Bullets few blindly. Several guards screamed and groaned as stray ammunition struck them in the legs, or back, or thwapped against their vests.
The last guard in her line found his feet taken out from under him. Natasha caught him as he fell and let his momentum carry him over her shoulder and onto the ground. A slow wheeze gurgled from his mouth as the air rushed from his lungs.
Natasha could feel another body approaching. She whipped around with her elbow out and jabbed him in the sternum, then sent the same elbow flying up to smash his nose. With a kick she sent him careening backward. Two consecutive thuds echoed out as he took his nearest comrade down with him.
Another fist flew at her in the thinning smoke. She grabbed it, twisted its owner's shoulder out of its socket, then kicked his feet out behind him as he screamed and threw him to the ground. Enough of this. Natasha dodged a blow and took a microsecond to orient herself. The balls of her feet dug into the ground as she sprinted a few steps. She launched herself into the air and came down on her palms, flying backward and landing perfectly on her feet.
A guard made his way out of the smoke locked eyes with her. Before he could even raise his weapon, Natasha had reached down and retrieved one of the tiny black firearms holstered at her thigh. The man fell to the ground and Natasha sprinted over to the tall brick pillar guarding the far corner of the playground. She dug her boot into the wrought iron fence and pulled herself up onto its flat stone top.
When the smoke engulfed them, Clint drew his feet beneath him and scrunched up on his powerful legs. He bounded up as high as he could jump and landed heavily a few feet forward. Furious shouts rattled through the air immediatly beside his ears. Clint slipped from the rope and swung a wild blow in the smoke, clocking Szabo in the back of the head. "You're mine, you little rat!" Szabo screamed. He was close enough that Clint could feel the warmth of his breath as he shouted. Two rough, scar-torn hands lurched out from the smoke. Clint barely managed to slip out of András's grip. Time to get out of the smoke. Clint coiled up and launched into another jump. His boots came down on the closest guard's hip. The man lost balance and shouted as he crashed into his neighbor. Clint pushed off of his human springboard and crashed onto the next man's head. The man bobbed beneath him under the strain, and Clint immediately transferred himself onto the next closest head. Before that guard could buckle under the weight, Clint pushed off and launched himself toward the building.
He broke free of the smoke cloud in mid-air, and landed his hands and feet all touching the rubble pile. Clint scrambled up the tallest piece of rubble and jumped up to the break in the wall. His fingers wrapped around the brittle sheetrock falling from the bottom of the hole torn in the wall. Dangling from the second story, Clint swung his legs and kicked away the long piece of rubble to prevent any ambitious guards from following him. He continued to swing his legs, gathering momentum as he flexed his bulky arms and hauled himself up, hand by hand, to the third floor.
He reached the horizontal beams and corrugated steel suspending the third floor and grabbed on. Several bullets whizzed around him as he somersaulted onto the carpet. Clint darted behind the the intact patch of wall and paused, waiting for the fire to stop. When it did, he grabbed the handgun tucked against the small of his back and swung back out, unloading the entire magazine on the small pool of guards forming at the base of the building.
Clint ducked back behind the wall. The smoke is almost gone. Time for the big guns. Clint darted across the opening in the wall. The guards opened fire and Clint kicked his feet out in front of him. He slid across the short carpet, grabbing his bow and quiver as he went.
The momentum of the slide sent Clint slamming into the azure blue wall, but he quickly rebounded and rolled on his back behind the nearest cubicle. He shifted his weight and the carpet squelched beneath his feet. Clint wriggled his toes, kept perfectly dry by the rubber soles of his shoes. Ha, he though. Combat boots.
Clint peeked out from the edge of the cubicle. The whole patch of floor closest to the whole was soaked. He dipped his fingers down and brought them to his nose. Water. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to - Clint notched an arrow and rose to his feet. He let it loose as he crossed back to his original position at the jagged edge of the wall. He sent a volley of arrow out the hole, using the time to search for the source of the water. A shiny copper pipe stuck out near where he stood. The explosion had melted some of the metal back over the severed pipe, but a few small gaps still spewed water into the building.
Clint clicked a sequence of buttons concealed on the hand grip of his bow. His quiver rotated with a mechanic hum and clicked as the arrowhead set into place. He ducked out around the wall and sent the arrow directly into the center of the guards trying to fire upon him. They cocked their heads momentarily as the arrow lay on the concrete; their enemy had yet to miss. Suddenly, the arrowhead blinked red and detonated, sending the group of guards flying backwards or running for cover.
Clint used the short reprieve to bend down and examine the pipe. His hands couldn't quite close the circumference as he fought to bend it. Clint laid his bow beside him and braced his legs on the slick carpet until he was all but laying parallel to the pipe. He gritted his teeth and puffed hot air from his nose as he pushed. The pipe groaned and bent out slowly toward the street. Clint grabbed his bow and used one end to bend the melted fragments away from the mouth of the pipe. As he did, more and more water began to gush onto the street below.
The first few guards to get wet looked up. Those who had been part of Clint's earlier water attack reeled backwards as the drops landed on them, but calmed again as they felt that the water was cool against their skin.
It's not enough. Clint looked at the suspended ceiling above him. But if this pipe supplies the sprinkler system, I bet there's one above me too. He grabbed a nearby chair, then pushed the ceiling tiles aside and went to work.
Natasha balanced easily on the wide brick pillar. She spun and spun, hopping from one foot to the other and dodging all the bullets that the TPE was throwing at her. Her gun clicked empty and she instinctively grabbed a new clip from her belt and clicked it into place. A group of three guards charged at her, the first two which she was able to take out with her gun. As the final man neared, Natasha flipped over his head and landed on her feet on the sidewalk behind him. She snapped his neck and let him fall. Another guard charged, and she shot her hand up to deflect his firearm. The gun fired a pulsing round of bullets into the air. Natasha jabbed the butt of the gun into her attacker's face, then stomped on his throat when he hit the ground. His backup ducked out of their cover, ready to attack from all sides. Natasha grabbed the submachine gun from the man at her feet and fired back.
"Clint!" she said over the constant pulse of gunfire. "Where the hell are you?" Three arrows whizzed around her, landing squarely in the backs and necks of the guards circling her.
"Right here," his voice replied in her ear.
Natasha's eyes followed the trajectory the arrows had come from and she glimpsed Clint poking out of the hole in the third floor wall. Her eyes immediately turned back to the pick-up sitting still on the side of the road. Another guard had climbed inside, and was stuffing another shell into the rocket launcher. Natasha reached down to her belt, but a meaty hand caught her arm. The guard behind her took her by the biceps and lifted her off the ground. She struggled against his grip and kicked her legs wildly, all the time glancing at the truck.
Natasha aimed a heel kick into the man's sternum, forcing all the air from her lungs. She threw her head back, clunking her skull against his, then stuffed two hard kicks into his gut. The man let go, and Natasha threw a spinning kick from the air, catching him in the side of the head. She landed on all fours, the immediatly swung around to face the truck, reaching for her belt as she went. A throwing knife buried itself in the back of the man with the rocket launcher. His weight and the angle of his fall caused him to pull the trigger as he fell. The rocket launcher fired into the truck, which went up in flames in a matter of seconds.
Natasha threw herself to the ground as the pick-up exploded. The sound of the blast rung in her ears and even from this distance she could feel the heat on her face. Foul black smoke floated up from the wreck.
Natasha made it to her knees before she glimpsed a grenade sailing through the air. She flattened herself back onto the ground, and the sandy pavement grated on her chin. An arrow shot through the air. Its shaft caught the dark green metal canister by the handle and dragged it from Natasha. The arrow streaked through the playground and landed in the brick wall of the school. The grenade detonated as it hit, shattering the windows and blowing a wide hole in the brick.
As she laid their on the ground, a guard fell onto Natasha's back. She rolled him off to see and arrow shaft sticking out on his chest.
"Sorry," said Clint.
"Where are these guys coming from?!" Natasha said as another guard fired at her. He quickly fell under an arrow. "We need to finish this and quickly."
"I think I can help you out with that."
Natasha followed the arrow backward again, to find that Clint had made his way up to the roof, were he stood on the corner opposite the bomb's destruction.
He nodded pointed to the water spewing from the second and third floors of the office building and dousing the side of the street. "Light 'em up, Natasha."
Natasha balled up her fists and felt the spider bites activate on her wrists. The gauntlets practically hummed with energy, and the contact points glowed to life on the back of her hands. "Cover me."
She ran to the other side of the street, toward the largest concentration of guards. A man ran at her and she launched herself up, somersaulting over him and landing gracefully at the edge of the puddle Clint had created. Natasha touched the spider bites to the water and watched ten guards jitter and shake and collapse on the ground.
"How many are left?" she asked.
"Looks like four, plus Szabo and Varga and a couple of zombies who just couldn't resist living to see round three. Uh-oh," he added.
"What is it?"
Clint stood on the corner of the roof, scanning over the smoke-filled, body-strewn street. Colors moved in the reflection of the monkey bar dome on the playground. To anyone else they would have seemed random and useless, but Clint took the angles of the scratched up dome of metal bars and reassembled the image in his mind. "Looks like we've got a straggler. There's a kid still on the playground, huddled up behind the brick pillar you were standing on earlier."
"Just leave him there. He'll be better of if he just stays hidden."
"Roger tha-" Clint cut himself off. "Damn, Varga's spotted him. Tasha, he'll kill that kid just for the fun of it."
"So stop him."
Clint fired a hail of arrows down at Varga's wiry form slinking across the little battlefield. "I - I can't. He's good. He's dodging everything I throw at him. Tasha, you've got to move the kid, now!"
Natasha rolled her neck and pinched her eyes to wake herself up, then broke into a sprint across the street. She reached the curb and used it as a step up to vault over the fence. Her hands caught on the topmost horizontal bar and tore painfully through the gloves and bandages as she twisted around the rectangular iron bar. She landed with a thump on the wood chips and looked up. A young girl, maybe five or six years old, sat plastered against the brick pillar. Her face was pale and slack. Her lips hung slightly open, but her throat remained paralyzed with fright. Her fear-filled eyes grew impossibly wide as Natasha dropped down in front of her.
"Come on," said Natasha, but the girl didn't move. "Come on!"
She shied away, pressing her tumbles of khaki hair closer to the brick.
Natasha pressed her finger to the ear radio. "Clint, how am I doing on time?"
"Not great," he puffed, and continued to shoot at Varga. "Tasha, you've got to get out of there."
Natasha studied the little girl's petrified face. She stretched out her hands slowly and spoke as gently as she could manage. "Sweetie listen to me. I know this is scary but you can't stay here anymore. We have to go now, but I've got you. I'll keep you safe, I promise."
The little girl studied Natasha for a second more, then slowly outstretched her hand. Natasha took it and pulled her away from the wall. She held the little girl on her hip, and she immediatly wrapped her hands tightly around Natasha's neck.
"You're being very brave," Natasha whispered. "Now hold on tight." Natasha stuck her foot in the fence again and used her free hand to haul herself and the girl up onto the top of the pillar. Without a second hand, Natasha was forced to sit on the pillar and swing her legs over, then jump down to the side street running along this side of the school.
"Varga's closing in on your six," Clint said as Natasha went to jump onto the sidewalk. She turned behind her and jumped down as a bullet went flying past her head. With the extra weight on her side, Natasha faltered on the landing. Her ankle caught and she tumbled to the ground. Her forearm shot out to shield the little girl from the fall, and scraped painfully against the street.
Natasha landed on her back and screamed. Spears of pain shot through her ankle, which only got worse as she tried to stand up. "Shit!"
"What's wrong?"
"My ankle's shot."
"Varga's closing in."
"Clint - !" Natasha didn't know what else to say. Zoltán Varga loomed over her, gun drawn, and she held out her handgun to match.
"I don't have a shot," said Clint. A second later, and arrow landed in the concrete a few yards from Natasha's head. She saw the arrowhead blink red, and her hands flew up to cover the little girl's ears. The arrow exploded, sending a wave of air and some fragments of molten plastic flying at them.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Trying to get his attention," said Clint. Varga looked up to the roof. Clint held his bow in the air and shouted as loudly as he could. "You don't want you little showdown with her, Varga! You want one with me! We all know you could out-shoot her with your eyes closed, but wouldn't you like a challenge? You really think you're better than the Hawkeye, Varga? Let's see it!"
"Very well," Varga growled, and took a few steps off the side street and onto the main road. He raised his gun up at Clint, who drew back his bow. Natasha struggled to her feet and hobbled a few steps away from Varga.
"Let's have a gentlemen's match now, Varga. Best shot wins."
"Oh believe me, I agree."
"Three! Two! . . ."
A split second before they went to shoot, Varga flinched. He drew a second gun from a hip holder and whipped his head toward Natasha.
She heard the gunshot first. She heard it and though nothing had happened.
Then the small, strong arms went slack on her neck.
The tumbles of long khaki hair fell back.
Her body fell limply against Natasha's arm, resting protectively on the little girl's back. Her wide icy eyes froze in glassy terror. A prefect red circle marked the center of her forehead.
All the color drained from Natasha's face. Colors streaked against her vision. Her teeth chattered and her throat went dry. She blinked. And again. No. It didn't. It couldn't have. She could not have let this happen. She wanted to be sick. "Natasha," Clint called over the radio, but she couldn't hear him.
She screamed. Natasha screamed. At first she thought it was only in her head, until she felt the burning in her throat. She hadn't screamed like that since she was eight years old. She tried to catch the sound before it left her throat, but it wouldn't stop. Her knees hit the pavement and she might have cried if she'd had any tears to let loose. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears and smell the metallic tang of blood in the air. She could feel the warm little flecks of blood spattered on her skin.
"Natasha!"
A whisper of Clint's shout came through, but it was eclipsed by another voice, on she hadn't heard in quite a while. Emotion is weakness, Natalia, the Red Room whispered in her mind. It tries to expand outward, exploding around you and causing only harm. You can change that. There is a black hole in your heart. Let it take the pain away; let all you emotion implode within you, never to escape.
She did. She let the pain drain away where she alway put it, in the black hole in the center of her heart. Except this time, it wouldn't go down. Natasha gagged. She could feel the pain, the rage rippling out from the center of her chest. It hurt. It killed. She was finally drowning in the pain. No Clint, THIS is compromised.
And she made a very important decision.