ix.

"So what do I call you?" Clint asked between draws. He and the mysterious surveillance system had fallen into a rhythm so quickly it felt natural. Clint wondered if he could run all his missions with this thing.

"I am the Machine," the unique mishmash of recorded voices answered. "Twelve o'clock. Nine o'clock."

Clint fired on both targets without a second glance. "So you're a computer, like JARVIS?"

"I am a computer program, but I am—seven o'clock—not like JARVIS. Three o'clock. Five o'clock out."

Aim. Breathe out. Release. Then Clint relayed the distant target to Stark. "Then what are you?"

"It is…classified."

"Ok, straight up: that's probably the worst thing you could have said if you wanted me to drop it," Clint grinned. He took down two more targets in quick succession.

"Four o'clock. I assume you are familiar with the phrase 'if I told you I'd have to kill you'?" The cheeky thing even used a recording of Clint's own voice for the punchline.

"Now that's just mean," Clint said before his next draw. "I won't be responsible for my actions if you dangle a carrot like that. You're asking for it."

"Eight o'clock. You can pry all you like, but it will not do you any—"

"Hold up," Clint cut the Machine off as Nat's voice snapped across the regular channel.

"Hawkeye!" She only called him that when she wanted to either mock him or grab his attention. He was going to put money on the latter this time—and sure enough, for a second Clint could do nothing but stare. It looked like she'd stolen one of those alien hovercraft things and taken it for a joyride. And that Loki'd caught on; he was hot on her tail, firing as she swerved.

"Nat, what are you doing?" He didn't even try to strip the incredulity from his voice.

"Uh, a little help!" she shouted, swinging her craft in a wild arc to one side and—oh, how beautiful. The perfect shot, lining up like the most wonderful gift in the world. Nat was the best.

"It seems like Agent Romanov is being pursued by…" the Machine began but fell silent when Clint selected a (very special) arrowhead. He drew in one smooth motion. Let himself feel and embrace, just for this moment, the full force of his own rage.

"I got him."

Aim. Breathe out. Release.

Loki caught it but Clint had expected that. Step two: real revenge coming right up. Clint triggered the grenade arrowhead and savored the ball of fire as it blossomed right in Loki's face.

It was like so much of his residual tension evaporated along with the smoke. Instant therapy.

But it looked like even that didn't take the god out—oh, there went the Hulk. Problem solved. Time to shelve his personal issues again and refocus on the battle.

"Feel better?" the Machine asked and Clint couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"You have no idea."

"Good," it said. "Eight o'clock."

Clint laughed. "Ok, ok. On it." They slipped back into their rhythm, eliminating targets at a steady pace. Clint had lost sight of Nat but he could still hear her over the main comm. The nearby rumble of thunder and deafening roars of the Hulk were reassuring. He could see Cap fighting on the ground with his oversized Frisbee way better than Clint had expected. And Iron Man zipped around them all while the Machine tracked his trajectories with special care. Clint kept in his zone (Aim. Breathe out. Release.) and felt like the conductor of the world's most violent orchestra.

"You know, this works great," he said over his private channel with the Machine. "Want to make it a hobby?"

"I am not going to divulge more information about my systems, Agent Barton," the Machine sighed in its patchwork way. "One and two o'clock."

"Ok, a, call me Clint, that's just getting weird. But b, you have to get bored sometimes. Couldn't you do with some more excitement? Are you really that busy surveilling whatever it is you normally surveil?"

"Nine o'clock," the Machine said. "Your persistence is admirable."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Clint breathed out, releasing yet another of his dwindling arrows. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

"I knew I would regret this. I assure you I have seen far more—four o'clock, four o'clock!"

The Machine's sudden urgency alarmed Clint and he loosed the next arrow on reflex. His second glance confirmed he'd killed the single remaining alien from a ground cluster that was pretty non-strategic, aside from a few unlucky civilians nearby. "Uh, what the hell?"

But all traces of banter were gone. The Machine rattled off a series of directions that made his blood run cold when it clicked. Clint was the one surrounded now and the aliens were closing fast. It looked like they'd decided he was a major threat after all. And of course they couldn't have better timing. He yanked his last arrow from the alien corpse at his feet and fitted a final arrowhead. Then he took the only sensible course of action: he leapt off the roof.

The Machine broke off its efficient reports to shriek, "What are you doing?" But he concentrated on lining up the shot and triggering the grappling hook—and then he couldn't hear anything over the sound of shattering glass. He smashed through a solid plate window and felt the impact crack through his ankles and shudder up his whole skeleton.

The next thing he knew he was lying on threadbare office carpet amid piles of glass shards, still too stunned to move. The grey around his vision receded and sound started filtering back into his buzzing ears.

"—Barton! Agent Barton, answer me! I can see you are moving, please answer me. Agent Barton!" The Machine repeated its message steadily. Clint got the sense it had been doing that for a while.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I'm here. I thought you'd seen everything." He cut himself off with a groan as he tried to roll to his side.

"Stay still!" the Machine snapped. "I directed JARVIS to send help. Paramedics are on their way. And your sarcasm is appreciated."

"Aw, you're a sweetheart," Clint sighed, sliding back to the ground. "Give me your address and I'll send flowers."

"Nice try," the Machine said. Clint let his eyelids slip closed. The stunned numbness was fading fast and he was going to appreciate serious painkillers very soon; he could already hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. Talk about service. "Please stay conscious," the Machine said. "And…it was a pleasure, Agent Barton. Thank you."

Clint grinned to himself. It had been kind of fun. "Right back at you." And then the medics burst through the door and he drifted.

Reese kept his eyes on Whalen as he dropped mid-stride, crashing hard to the rubble strewn street. The last thing he wanted was for Whalen to get up again. Not when he likely couldn't help Finch anymore. But Whalen looked down for good. Reese pressed his lips together, yearning for time to check the body to make sure. Thinking of everything he should have said to Finch before now. But by all rights Reese should already be dead—the alien's foul breath ghosted across the back of his neck. No time. He spun to face the creature with a desperate strike.

But he found a heap of limbs where his assailant should have been. A long black arrow protruded from the dead creature's neck.

Reese stood there and stared at it, trying to reconcile expectation with reality as adrenaline faded from his blood. Finch limped up next to him and halted at his shoulder. "Mr. Reese…" he said. He sounded breathless. It shook Reese from his stupor and he began scanning the street for further threats.

Another man stood where Finch had left him and looked utterly shell-shocked. Reese couldn't blame him at all.

"I think perhaps it would be best to seek shelter," Finch continued, regaining his customary poise. He waved a hand toward the other man. "This is Lawrence Carlton. Whalen was trying to abduct him, although I suspect elimination would have suited him just as well." Reese gave him one sharp nod and they moved back toward Carlton, the echoes of the surrounding battle registering again in Reese's ears. He paused to check Whalen's body and confirm the kill before moving on.

"Where were you trying to go?" Reese asked as he pushed Carlton before him, keeping one eye on Finch and the other on the surrounding street. The aliens seemed to be moving further into the center of Midtown but Reese could tell it wasn't over yet. Finch directed them into the nearest alley and they hustled along the block.

"Originally, a safe house," Finch said. Reese kept a hand behind his shoulder to steady him as they jogged. Carlton snorted as he tripped over an overturned garbage can and wobbled. Reese made no move to stabilize him.

"We didn't quite make it," Carlton commented once he'd righted himself. Reese could tell he was trembling, clearly coming down off his own adrenaline high.

Reese nodded at him. "So I see," he yanked them both to a stop at the alley's mouth and did a cursory street scan. "Backup plan was the subway?"

"Yes," Finch pointed a station out, evening out his breathing in scant seconds. "I think in light of the situation that is still your best option, Mr. Carlton."

Carlton blinked at him, one hand resting on the dingy wall. "My best chance? What about you?"

Reese slid his gaze to meet Finch's and nodded once. They'd done their job. "This is where we leave you," Finch said. "Mr. Whalen is no longer a threat to you. You should consider evacuation."

"Right," Carlton said. "He's dead now." He took a few steps toward the subway, flinching back when several blasts echoed down the street. "Right. But…how do I thank you?"

"Your survival is thanks enough." Reese motioned toward the subway station. Carlton looked them both in the eye, nodded once and headed for the station. Reese watched him descend the steps before turning back to Finch and raising his eyebrows. "Back to the library?"

Finch nodded slowly. "I think that would be best. It's far enough away from the main battle."

"I think I can get us there in one piece," Reese said and gave Finch a faint grin. Finch just stared back at him, face blank. "Finch? We need to move."

Finch blinked and took one halting step forward. Reese stepped beside him and watched his employer limp through the debris strewn street. Neither said a word as they made their laborious way through the few city blocks to the library's lower entrance, careful to stay out of sight of the remaining aliens.

Just as they were about to duck into the tunnel, the ground shook with several monstrous crashes. Reese watched as an alien ship hovering down the next block fell out of the sky—as if it were a toy helicopter whose batteries had died. Rather than investigate, Reese hustled Finch into the tunnel and up into the relative safety of the library. It was miraculously undisturbed. For a moment it felt like nothing outside had been real, like they were starting a new day and ready to track down a new number.

The illusion lasted the few minutes it took Finch to bring up several news reports on the invasion. It seemed Tony Stark had performed some selfless sacrifice and used his Iron Man suit to close the invasion portal—the aliens had collapsed en masse and it was over.

New York had survived an alien invasion.

Reese perched on one of the cluttered tables and grinned to himself, feeling a sense of post-mission elation. "Well, I have to say. That was one of our more interesting numbers." Finch was silent, his back turned to Reese as he paged through news reports. Reese watched him for a long moment, smile fading. "Finch?"

"I was afraid you had died, Mr. Reese."

Reese blinked. He stood and moved around the desk but Finch kept his face tilted away. "It was close. I would have if it weren't for Robin Hood."

Finch frowned, eyebrows drawn down to the thick frames of his glasses. "No. Before that. When Whalen turned on you. The call cut out."

"Ah." Reese waited and soon enough Finch raised his eyes to meet Reese's. "We've lost phones before, Finch."

"Yes, I know," Finch sighed. "But part of me couldn't help but think this was the last time. It was during an unprecedented phenomenon, after all."

Reese grinned. "You mean alien invasion."

One corner of Finch's mouth twitched. "As you say. It made me think. I have…" he took a deep breath. "I've made a number of mistakes in the past, Mr. Reese. I will likely continue to, and I wanted to apologize now that I have the chance. I want you to know that I do trust you to do your job and…"

Reese leaned forward, at eye level with the shorter man. "I know. We both made mistakes in that case. And in this one. We won't make them again."

Finch gave him a graceful nod. "You are truly a man of few words."

Reese shrugged. "I make them count," he said.

"You're certainly not wrong. I'm sure we'll manage to find plenty of new mistakes to make as it is," Finch said as his face shifted into a small smile.

Reese laughed. He knew they'd be fine and it felt good. To be alive, to have stopped the number in the end. Saving the day and surviving the battle—who could ask for more? And the next time a number came up: they'd be ready for it.

If aliens couldn't stop them, nothing would.