interlude

Alrighty—show time.

Clint prepped his bow, checking the string for the third time and turning the plan over in his mind step by step. This was it: the big strike, no holds barred. Winner take all. Or something like that.

And so help him, Clint was going to make damn sure that winner was Loki if it killed him. The thought of his god locked up in a SHIELD cage was intolerable, repulsive—even if it had been necessary to the plan. Clint wasn't going to let it stand much longer. He steadied himself against the cold metal hatch as their stolen quinjet shuddered, plunging through the turbulent wake of the helicarrier on approach. The faint voice of his pilot filtered into his hearing aids as he radioed the flight deck to clear their (totally shady) approach, made tinny as it competed with the roar of so many engines. It all combined into a peripheral haze as he waited at the hatch, blinking the grit from his aching eyes.

Fatigue had settled so deep into his bones he felt like he was made up of two things: exhaustion wrapped around a core of fire. The desire to serve Loki was white-hot and painfully bright; it was the one thing that outstripped his desperate need to sleep for a week. But that would have to wait.

Business first.

"Sir," the pilot called back, his voice sharp in the aids that chafed his ear canal after so long. "We're in range." Clint nodded and breathed out, settling his shoulders and opening the hatch as his team moved inward away from the howling wind.

Oh, yeah. This was a good solid challenge, a near-impossible shot. Air currents and eddies swirled unpredictably between their jet and the helicarrier and light from the rising sun made bright, random flashes as they passed. But Loki hadn't sent him out here for nothing and he was desperate to prove it. Hell, even Nat would have to be impressed with this one.

Clint frowned. Nat was on the helicarrier, wasn't she? Had to be—this was where the big kids were gathered so of course she'd be in the middle of it. Clint felt a split second of sharp regret, concern—but it was swallowed whole in seconds by the cold fire. Why would it matter? She'd either stay out of the way or she'd die; if she wasn't serving Loki, she wasn't important.

(Stand down, Nat. Please.)

Clint shook off the moment and sighted his target: a critical support point for one of the four massive repulsor engines. Winds shifting but manageable (for him). The stage was all his.

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

He waited until their quinjet was in optimal position and then—bam. The grenade arrowhead lit up the engine at the touch of a button. Let Loki's new age come crashing in on a wave of fire.

Clint directed his pilot to set the quinjet down while the helicarrier reeled from the sudden explosion. One of the mercs offered him an air mask but he waved it off. It's not like he'd be out on the deck long. And maybe the thin air would wake him up a bit. Or did that work the other way around?

Whatever. At least it made him feel a little more badass.

His team didn't need further instructions as they all knew the plan by heart but he gave them out anyway. It made him feel better, shaking off the last vestiges of nebulous unease. Loki needed him. So he sent the few mercs he'd kept with him to be the control room's diversion—sacrificial lambs on the altar of Loki's freedom. He spared them no second thought.

Clint slithered up into the seldom-used catwalks and overlooked access shafts that were his domain. He shouldn't have trouble; no one came up here besides him (except Nat, sometimes Phil-)

He shook his head to clear his wandering thoughts. Right, no trouble. If he did meet anyone up here, they wouldn't be a problem for long. Anyone.

He ruthlessly squashed the sharp twinge deep in his chest. There was no room for mercy on this mission—even for himself.

The control room was way too easy to access. If Clint didn't have every move planned and every SHIELD protocol anticipated, he'd be suspicious. But then he heard the roar of the Hulk echo across his earpiece and he knew they'd be fine. Phase one of the plan accomplished. Time for phase two.

A few grenade arrows to lead off here, dole out some panic and confusion to the control room agents. Then the money shot: a usb arrowhead carrying a virus to disable the second engine. It was like Christmas in here, just with more explosions.

Aim. Breathe out. Release—duck, holy shit!

Ok, Fury still had it where it counted. Good thing Clint's reflexes were still as sharp as ever or the old man would have had another notch on his—wait. Fury.

Hadn't Clint shot him before?

He let events replay in his mind as he made his way toward detention, the catwalk shifting beneath his feet as the helicarrier fell into its tailspin. Yes, he totally had—at the end of his old life and the start of his new purpose, when Loki came. He'd been directed to shoot Fury, and he'd had to use a (stupid) gun. Had he missed? His tired thoughts jumbled as he tried to recall. No, he'd nailed him in the chest. In the vest, damn it.

Which, come to think of it, he'd known Fury had to be wearing. The man was a paranoid freak, he probably wore his body armor to bed if he ever slept. But Loki had just asked Clint to shoot, had been satisfied. And Fury seemed to be a key figure in Loki's plan here, at least in the parts he'd kept to himself (which seemed to be most of it). Clint was fine, he'd done ok. The hot flare of panic in his chest tamped down as he walked. Loki had wanted Fury alive.

And Clint could remember a strange hesitation now, a reluctance to kill Fury. Why did it matter? Fury opposed Loki; the minute the god wanted him dead, Clint would take the final shot.

Right?

Ugh, this shouldn't be a problem. He should want to do anything Loki told him. And he did, wanted to please him more than anything—except…

What if it was Nat he had to kill for Loki? Or Phil? Could he actually do it? Clint shook his head as he stumbled against a support, the catwalk shuddering under his feet once more. The uncertainty was unsettling. He felt like some part of his brain was waking up, starting to wonder what he was doing here. Who did he value more: the few people on the planet he trusted or the sole purpose for his existence?

Duh, stupid question. Shake it off, Barton. Loki or nothing. Right?

Well, it didn't matter anyway. He shouldn't run into either of them now so it was pointless to freak out about it. Maybe there would even be time to recruit them, after.

Everything was fine, he was ok.

Actually, he was distracted. Not so ok.

He noticed the soft movements whisper in perfect sync with his steps and didn't waste a second more. A quick arrow was the answer to every problem. But somehow the agent anticipated the move and all Clint got was a flash of red and the infuriating whoosh of a missed shot. His body moved into the smooth dance of strike and deflect that came as natural to him as breathing even before he recognized—Natasha!

Oh, shit.

Ok, stop the ride, Clint wanted off!

But the harder he tried to stop himself, he more he lost control of his own body. With every swipe and jab exchanged, Clint sunk deeper into his own mind like a quagmire. The rest of him kept fighting with brutal efficiency. The part of his brain that had started waking up began screaming to stop but it was like watching a movie and he'd lost the remote. Thankfully Natasha held nothing back herself and he felt the sharp stings and breathtaking bruises of her precise strikes.

Then the knives came out and he knew for sure his body was not his own.

Please, please stay on top, Nat! The rising panic in his chest choked him—or maybe that was because the act of breathing wasn't even his anymore. He had never experienced anything more horrifying in his life and it wasn't over yet.

He felt his free hand twist into her hair and yank her head back, exposing her throat to the gleaming knife clutched in his numb fingers. He couldn't even close his eyes.

This was it.

He braced himself for unfathomable horror—but not the sudden agony of teeth buried in his forearm. Aw, Nat! This was just one reason he loved her. She was never down.

Oh, but he was. He hadn't even finished the thought before she deftly flipped him and slammed his head into the railing. Showed no mercy. Atta girl.

He tried to grin up a her through the blinding pain, to stumble to his feet. But the numb feeling didn't dissipate and he knew with cold clarity he still wasn't in control. Could he even warn her?

Eh, no need to worry. Natasha wasn't stupid. Her fist met his temple like a load of bricks and he happily plunged into darkness.