(no subject)
Sep. 26th, 2010 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissarmybow[The memory is still too fresh. He feels it in his bones, like a slow, deep pulse of adrenaline that seeps from the inside out. It's a warmth, a truth, an absolute that brings him no peace whatsoever. This was his life. This happened.
He's tired, he thinks, looks tired and willful and ready to do anything he ought to advance the goal. Aim for the target. He never misses.
It's a contradiction. The memory never replays quite right, never seems completely real. Clint watches himself looking over the screen, perusing the list of names like any of them mean anything at all, like those unspecified sources are nothing compared to his own prowess, his own sharpness, his own intellect. For a moment he wonders if he wasn't the most dangerous man alive. He was a haven of secrets, of lies, of confidences that only a man like Nick Fury could place in a man like Clint Barton after everything he's seen and done. They were all pried from him like a nail from a board, leaving him bent and rusted for a fleeting span of time.
The place he's in is far below ground, dank, lit on the fringes by sickly yellow bulbs. In the center gleams a little research bubble, a haven for the scientist who glances at the archer from time to time, smiling broadly. This is a playground for the other man. Freedom.
But Clint has no such joy. He has a computer and a job to do, and all he sees in his sights is his next target, the avenue to victory. His face relaxes. His target is found.
The scientist speaks:]
Stick in the mud, he's got no soul. No wonder you chose this tomb to work in!
[Clint knows how to hide, how to lay in wait, what to do when the odds are stacked against you. And he knows his enemies, his allies, his resources better than anyone. Criticism isn't favored. But he knows he's right. And he knows the speaker is right, too, just as he knew he was right when it actually happened. Maybe he has no soul. He's no team player, no hero, just a guy with all the right tools and tricks to get the job done.
Then he watches himself speak.]
Well the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube.
[He walks alongside the puppet master, the reason he feels a wrench in his gut even as the memory simply replays.
Clint's focus shifts, following the track of Loki even as those words come back to him.]
As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down. And he'll be putting together a team.
Are they a threat?
To each other, more than likely. But if Fury can get 'em on track--and he might--they could throw some noise our way.
You admire Fury.
He's got a clear line of sight.
Is that why you failed to kill him?
It might be. I was disoriented... and I'm not at my best with a gun.
I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his.
[There's something more, but it comes across as white noise, a buzz, the droning sound of a man trying to forget.
A skip, to two men walking down a hallway, the same man in gold and Clint. And there's a list of names, names he's trying not to say, words he wishes he could take back. But that part of the memory, too, is blurred.
And after a moment, it simply starts again.]
He's tired, he thinks, looks tired and willful and ready to do anything he ought to advance the goal. Aim for the target. He never misses.
It's a contradiction. The memory never replays quite right, never seems completely real. Clint watches himself looking over the screen, perusing the list of names like any of them mean anything at all, like those unspecified sources are nothing compared to his own prowess, his own sharpness, his own intellect. For a moment he wonders if he wasn't the most dangerous man alive. He was a haven of secrets, of lies, of confidences that only a man like Nick Fury could place in a man like Clint Barton after everything he's seen and done. They were all pried from him like a nail from a board, leaving him bent and rusted for a fleeting span of time.
The place he's in is far below ground, dank, lit on the fringes by sickly yellow bulbs. In the center gleams a little research bubble, a haven for the scientist who glances at the archer from time to time, smiling broadly. This is a playground for the other man. Freedom.
But Clint has no such joy. He has a computer and a job to do, and all he sees in his sights is his next target, the avenue to victory. His face relaxes. His target is found.
The scientist speaks:]
Stick in the mud, he's got no soul. No wonder you chose this tomb to work in!
[Clint knows how to hide, how to lay in wait, what to do when the odds are stacked against you. And he knows his enemies, his allies, his resources better than anyone. Criticism isn't favored. But he knows he's right. And he knows the speaker is right, too, just as he knew he was right when it actually happened. Maybe he has no soul. He's no team player, no hero, just a guy with all the right tools and tricks to get the job done.
Then he watches himself speak.]
Well the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube.
[He walks alongside the puppet master, the reason he feels a wrench in his gut even as the memory simply replays.
Clint's focus shifts, following the track of Loki even as those words come back to him.]
As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down. And he'll be putting together a team.
Are they a threat?
To each other, more than likely. But if Fury can get 'em on track--and he might--they could throw some noise our way.
You admire Fury.
He's got a clear line of sight.
Is that why you failed to kill him?
It might be. I was disoriented... and I'm not at my best with a gun.
I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his.
[There's something more, but it comes across as white noise, a buzz, the droning sound of a man trying to forget.
A skip, to two men walking down a hallway, the same man in gold and Clint. And there's a list of names, names he's trying not to say, words he wishes he could take back. But that part of the memory, too, is blurred.
And after a moment, it simply starts again.]
