A/N: I've changed the story a bit so that Taylor's nineteen and this happens after Iron Beta 3, because there's going to be a line coming up in the next chapter that would make no sense otherwise. I've gone back and changed the other chapters to match this.

Around three hours later, by my best estimate and Clint's internal clock, no progress was being made on escape. The only thing that had changed after Ansari talked to us was the introduction of his presents, and that left Clint with broken ribs, Steve a concussion, Tony had a dislocated shoulder, Thor - who had woken up about two and a half hours ago - had a broken nose (but was healing at godly rate), and I had a gash about five inches long in my forearm.

We didn't know if Taylor - or anyone else, for that matter - was coming to save us, but there had been no contact from anyone on the outside, and we decided not to waste our energy by trying, most likely in vain, to establish contact.

We were all extremely tense, waiting and ready for anything; whether it be rescue, an opportunity to escape.

"Natasha!" Clint hisses in the dark, ripping me from my thoughts.

I'm on full alert in a second. "What?"

"Someone's coming," Steve answers softly, and sure enough the single light turns on, causing us to squint as someone steps into the spotlight. It's not Ansari, but just some assistant thug instead.

"The prisoners are to be brought to the interrogation chambers," the guy, probably no older than 25, drones mindlessly. "They will submit to the reign and calling of the Blood Moon. The Blood Moon is honorable, the Blood Moon is – ack!"

He's cut off by a wet gurgling sound, and he stumbles sideways and drops like a sack of potatoes. I can just barely see the bullet hole in his neck – but we didn't hear a gunshot.

"I heard a click," Steve whispers, thanks to his serum-enhanced hearing, and Clint nods. "Like a silencer."

I nod, sharing a glance with Thor and Tony. This might be rescue, this might just be it…

"Show yourself," Steve commands to the darkness, not in a particularly loud voice but one that makes you want to do whatever he says.

Everything stays silent and still for a few more seconds, until I just catch a shadow uncurling itself from the roof at the edge of the light – right where nobody would see them until it was too late; the contrast between light and dark was too much for anyone to see anything definite.

"Show yourself," Steve asks again, this time a little more urgent.

The shadow drops about nine feet to the ground, landing agilely on his/her feet, the impact not making a sound. I can clearly see a pistol in their right hand, so whoever this is shot the thug. The shadow stands slowly, taking a slow step to the right, ending up in the middle of the spotlight.

Taylor's wearing her customary smirk. "Miss me?"

Tony is left sputtering. "Holy…holy...what?!"

Taylor whips a finger to her lips. "это не безопасно. Natasha?"

I nod, relaying the message in English. "It's not safe."

"No s - no duh," Tony remarks, and his daughter just gives him a stern look.

I take a second to study the youngest Avenger. She's decked out in pure, dark black; you can't even see her reactor glow. The armor she's wearing covers all important organs like her stomach, lungs, and heart, with her belt not only covering her kidneys but also carrying guns, ammo, and a plethora of other useful stuff. Her normally sparkling blue eyes are fully covered by a slim black pair of sunglasses with dark purple lenses.

She didn't rush in rashly, I reflect proudly, she means business.

Footsteps make us all go on alert, but Taylor doesn't even blink as two more thugs burst through a door, just blindly tosses a knife over her shoulder, hitting Thug 1 in the neck and dropping him, then turning to put one bullet between Thug 2's eyes.

I hear Tony give a low whistle behind me as Taylor goes over, closes the door, bolts it, and wedges something underneath the bolt to keep it there before walking back over to us. "That'll hold for a bit."

"Okay, good…now, what. The. Hell?!" I hear Tony demand behind me.

Taylor, for all her dangerous looks, actually adopts an expression that is equal parts sheepish and indignant. "Well nobody else was coming! So…" she shrugs.

"I like it," Clint offers. "But what is it?"

"I call it Plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23."

"…huh?"

"Plan B – Sparrow," Taylor clarifies. "I call it Sparrow. Sans-suit. Later."

Clint nods sharply, obviously recognizing who's temporarily in charge.

"So!" Taylor tenses slightly, suddenly all-business. "Injury report?"

"Cap's got a concussion, Hawk's got broken ribs, Tony's got a dislocated shoulder, Thor's got a sore – previously broken nose, and Banner's still out."

"Widow has a gash, left forearm," Clint interjects, and I glare at him.

Taylor nods. "No Hulk?"

"No Hulk. Drugs."

She nods again and moves over to study the locked door of the cell for a moment before turning to us. "Are there any keys?"

Tony shakes his head. "With the head guy."

Taylor nods, sighs, and lifts her left boot to fiddle with something in the heel. She gets a small compartment open, and pulls out something I instantly recognize as a multi-lock pick. She fiddles with the lock for a few seconds before there's a click that sounds like a thunderclap in the quiet room.

We all freeze for a moment, waiting with bated breath for any sign of movement. Once the coast is clear again, Taylor jogs over to me and quickly picks my shackles, pressing the lock pick into my hands as she unholsters one of her guns and goes to wait by the door.

Once we're all free, I turn to Taylor, who had her back to us. "What now?"

I watch her stiffen and hold up a hand for us to wait as she silently springs upwards to grab onto a thin pipe running above the door and pull her boots up to brace just above the doorway. "Silencieux." Quiet. French.

I nod and wait as footsteps thunder towards our room, a thug bursting in the doorway –

Only to be kicked in the back of the head by Taylor's boot swinging down and smashing into the base of his skull, most likely either shattering a few vertebrae, his spinal cord, or his brain stem. Taylor lands silently and proceeds to take the dead man's shirt off his body and rips into strips. She walks back over to us and glances at Clint. "Search him for anything valuable."

While he trots over to do that, she waves me over, several of the fabric strips in her hands. "Your arm," she orders. "Let me see it."

I sigh and roll up my sleeve. She studies the wound for a moment before taking one of the strips and lying it lengthwise, along the cut, and then take several more strips and wrapping them around the wound.

"That should hold until we can get out," she assures me. "But don't push it."

"Jackpot!" Clint trots back over with a few knives, magazines, a few big handguns, and an Uzi-looking gun. He hands me an eight inch serrated hunting knife, a handgun, and three magazines, taking the Uzi himself along with another handgun and two more magazines and two throwing knives. Tony gets handed another, deadlier, knife and Thor, thankfully, knows how to use the knife he's given to guard Bruce. Steve is given the last handgun and magazines after he's assured us that his concussion has cleared up.

"Alright," Taylor breaths as soon as we're all standing in the center of room, armed and about 75% dangerous. "Does anyone know a way out?"

"Do you have Jarvis?" Tony asks hopefully. "Because he could probably trace your route in."

She shakes her head. "I have him connected to my bike outside, but I needed complete radio silence in here. Not that it would've even worked, with the EMP."

Tony pauses, but eventually slumps in defeat and concession. "Right."

Taylor then looks at the rest of us. "Does anyone have a problem relinquishing control to me?"

We all shake our heads and I catch her attention with a two-fingered salute. "You're the boss here, Sparrow."

She nods and jogs over to release the door. "Good, but I want Steve back in place ASAP," she calls over her shoulder. "This is so far above my pay grade. I'm like, what, seventh in command here?"

Tony starts counting off fingers. "Cap, me, spider, birdbrain, Bruce, you, and then Thor. Technically sixth."

"If it's just me and Thor, there isn't much point to leadership left."

"But still-"

Taylor perks up and stares at the door. "Shh!"

I focus my ears on a muffle sound on the other side of the door. Footsteps?

"Footsteps," Clint unknowingly confirms, chambering a round in his handgun. "We're about to have company."

I barely see Taylor's nod. "Form up," she orders hurriedly, "Thor and Bruce in the center. Dad, left flank. Tasha, back left, guard him. Clint, front right flank, at my shoulder. Steve, you're at the back. Yes?"

Faint agreement is heard all over, and I can hear the loading of multiple guns as I get into position.

"Try not to sound like a drunken herd of elephants. Go!"

We're moving at a decent pace out of the room, the first few seconds only sound being two pairs of footsteps – Bruce was unconscious and Clint, Taylor (somehow) and I were silent.

Then Clint sounds the first warning and the guy that rounds the corner lasts all of a second before a bullet enters his head, followed closely by a second in his right eye and a third in his stomach.

But he's followed by a second, a third, and a fourth-

I internally grin sadistically at the familiarity of bullets whizzing everywhere and opponents dropping like flies. Old habits die hard, indeed.

Once the smoke has cleared, I find myself in front of Tony, who's recovered a gun from somewhere and seems to have a basic enough understanding of it's usage. Bruce is still unconscious, but the rest of us are just slightly rumpled. Taylor is still at the front of the 'pack', eyes calmly scanning over all of us. Clint is pressed back-to-back with her, shoulders brushing with every little movement.

Eventually they step away from each other, and Taylor lowers her pistol with an "all clear." And, just like that, a huge ball of tension unravels between all of us.

"That was fun." I grin.

Clint nods. "Kind of nostalgic," he agrees.

"All we really need now is-" Taylor cuts herself off as her eyes fall on one of the bodies, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, no way!" She rushes over and flips the guy on his stomach, grabbing something off his back and heading back over to us.

Shoving the object into the light, it's revealed to be a bow – a perfectly curved longbow, about four and half feet long, carved from what looked like ivory with a bowstring made of what looked like leather.

"It looks hand made," Clint observes quietly.

"Well the maker's dead," Taylor flaps a hand to the body she got it from. "And finders keepers."

Clint immediately makes a grab for the bow, but Taylor slaps his hand away before he can touch it.

"No," she scolds. "You have broken ribs, and we both know how much stress drawing a bow back puts on your ribs if they aren't fully healed. You can have it when we get back, alright?"

I can't tell if this is Clint's girlfriend or his commander speaking, and apparently neither can he – because all he does is nod slowly and fall into a sultry silence.

Taylor studies the bow for a moment, giving the string an experimental tug before coming up with a decision. "I can use this, although my shoulders are going to hate me in the morning."

I nod and hand her the quiver, a stiff leather pouch filled with more ivory arrows, and she slings it across her back and her gloved hands tighten around the bow instinctively, and I see a slight amount of power flood her eyes – Sparrow, one of two of the best archers in the world, has her hands on a bow.

"Come on," she grins slightly maliciously, "let's move."