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Part I: Abberation
Chapter II: What's The Point?
White...
White everything...
White walls, white bed sheets...
White lights, white paper... It flutters... off a white clipboard.
Suddenly the walls get smaller, suddenly the white handcuffs get tighter...
Suddenly breathing is hard, he wonders if his skin is as white as a sheet from the apparent lack of oxygen.
He's never been claustrophobic, but all that thinking about that does is bring an image of Santa Claus, and his extremely white beard.
Cause yah know, Claus-trophobic?
Don't get it?
Forget it.
The white light digs into his eyes, trying to blind him. It's almost like when he was in the Arctic, everything so snowy and white, because the sun. He thinks about Polar Bears, their white fur.
In his delusional state, he imagines Santa eating a polar bear, feasting on it's white blood cells, and wearing it's teeth as a crown and pelt as pants.
Maybe this is evidence of his messed up imaginative system.
Saying imagination is too hard.
He gasps his last breath of air, as he falls beneath the white ocean and the white ice traps him under.
The white bubbles he somehow manage to get minuscule amounts of oxygen from, isn't enough.
He slowly sinks, (sinking indicates more mass, and more mass indicates more muscles) and fades into a white, peaceful oblivion.
Because what's the point? Life is indeed pointless.
A low, annoying sound comes from the forward general direction. Without opening his eyes, Clint deduces it's either a door with rusty hinges, or his grandma trying to do a backflip.
Choosing the more logical of the two, without opening his eyes he grunts, "Grandma, you're going to dislocate your hip."
And then adds in second thought, "Again." Just to get his point across. As soon as he says 'again' a sharp pain fills his lungs, as if he'd been inhaling chalk or smoke.
Clint coughs several times, but it still feels like dry cotton is lodged in his throat. He tries and swallows, but another bout of coughing stops him.
A low chuckle that most definitely does not belong to his grandma resounds. With a sheepish look he cracks open an eye, to see only the biggest, baddest, and all around b-avenger Bruce Banner.
He's wearing a white lab coat.
Figures.
That's when Clint desires to study the room, or infirmary, that he is so elegantly places in while recuperating from grievous harms.
His head hurts from trying to think works that sophisticated.
The walls of the infirmary are an off white, and he faces a 12x12 photograph of a polar bear eating a seal. He wonders why such a gruesome photo is in an infirmary... Maybe it's supposed to take the patient's mind off of their pain, and feel bad for the seal getting gnawed on.
Whatever it is, it strangely brings images of Santa Claus to the forefront of Clint's extremely innocent mind.
Clint looks up at the ceiling where a white light (the kind of light that camera filming is done best in (Clint's secret hobby is photography)) blares at him.
Bruce takes out a stethoscope, and puts it on Clint's shoulder. He writes it down on the white sheet of paper on the white clipboard. "Well, well, soldier..." He starts, "Your heartbeat is back to normal, temperature 98.7, blood pressure 124/72."
Clint starts feeling uncomfortable.
Bruce looks at him with an all knowing gaze, "No trace of poison, concussion, or heart attack."
Here it is... Here it comes...
He feels cornered - feral. His breath seems short, and his eyes are dilated slits. He feels his lungs rattle, but tries pushing that away angrily.
"So soldier, mind explaining what happened? You gave all of us a big shock."
"Uhh..." Is Clint's brilliant, spiffing response. He thinks, he thinks really hard, but the seconds before his passing out are blurry and foggy, and Clint can't remember what he did. He feels angry all of the sudden, like the blame is being placed on himself.
"I don't know." He shrugs apologetically, but nonchalantly in utter disorganization. He tries to bite back at Bruce, snarl - anything.
"Come on Clint, no body's going to believe that. What actually happened?" Bruce looks at him in disbelief.
"I swear I can't remember. Maybe my memory was erased or something." Clint fires back. This time speaking hurts more than it should, he barely is able to ignore it.
"Okay, okay," Bruce waves his hand in dismissal, "I'm scanning your brain, hold still."
Clint waits, and waits. Reluctantly he wonders what's happening to him. Why... is he... so angry...? His thoughts come in short burst, and new found desperation clouds his mind.
"No brain tampering, no memory loss, no nothing. You should be fine... And remember."
"Don't believe me then!" He all but accuses, "I just passed out with out reason! I know that sounds stupid, but you think I'm hiding who or what knocked me out?"
"You're being illogical." Bruce says, trying to calm him down. "I think something undetected is still wrong with your brain. You're having massive amounts of aggression in a calm environment. Hold still for a moment."
Clint starts laughing hysterically, he swats Bruce's out stretched hand away, "I'm being illogical! I'm being illogical!"
Clint reaches towards his IV to yank it out and attack Bruce, but a millisecond before a well muscled hand stops him.
He looks up to see Steve glaring pitifully down at him, "I got him Banner, sedate him before anything else bad happens."
Needles... Needles...
Bruce approaches him with a long shot, which no doubt something in it almost as strong as the liquid substance that put him in this situation in the first place...
He fights and thrashes, tries to keep his eyes that betray him and close...
Huh... He realizes. I've been knocked out twice in two days.
And he angrily falls unconscious, knowing he's being illogical, yet with particular animosity still flowing in his veins.
Whoever you are...
I will get you...
I WILL GET YOU...!
Green eyes flash in the absolute darkness, a maniac, crooked smile adorns the face, and hands that are capable of killing tap lightly on the oak desk.
"You called, sir?" He spits out with all the disrespect he can muster. He's not afraid of his boss, he's not afraid of anyone.
"Yes, I did, subordinate." Is shot back. "You've got a new mission."
"What happened to my old one?" He asks, angry, knowing the answer.
"Meyers took it over... The Fate thought you had been... compromised."
"That kid couldn't take down a muscled mustached baby, no less Rust's frontman." He says with hate.
"I am not here to waste my time by telling you about Meyers. I am here to tell you about your new mission."
"Okay, tell me. But make it quick, I have a date at 1800."
"Ah, a ladies man, eh?" The mans eyebrow rises.
"You're not Canadian. Now tell me my assignment, before I throw you out of this building myself." He grins at the thought.
"Meyers is getting files on our number one enemy, you're breaking into one of our number two enemy's warehouses to get information."
"Typical. What's the enemy?"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. I have your tickets already, and you're flying west tomorrow. You have the rest of the day to read the file, and then come up with a game plan. We don't know where the warehouse is, so anything else is by your own means."
"So basically you're just dropping me in the middle of an ocean and telling me to swim?"
Simple enough, right?
"Welcome to the life of a Agent, Agent."
"I hate water." He deadpans, angry. "And Shield? How creative. Isn't that the intelligence organization that sits around and does nothing other than boss around the Avengers?"
"The very same. Though they still have information on Dylan and Thompson."
He scoots his chair back, satisfied. "Of course I want Dylan out of prison, but Thompson? He can rot in a holding cell for all I care."
"It got you to join us, didn't it?" He whispers in a deadly calm voice.
He keeps his gaze stead on the 'sir.' "Yes it did. I just hope you also know, that as soon as you turn around with your back towards me, I'll be on you like a flash — my dagger buried into your heart."
"That day will never come," he waves offhandedly.
"Oh it will. And I'll take a special pleasure in killing you, sir. Slowly and painfully, just like my reputation."
Slowly and painfully...
Slowly and painfully...
I will kill...
You...