Chapter Text
“Gotov k vypolneniyu.” The words echoed through the quiet room. The light was shallow, casting only a faint light across the asset’s face as it breathed heavily in its spot. Ready to comply.
“You have a mission, Soldier,” was the reply that came from the man standing in front of the asset, his face almost smug as he looked down at the man strapped in The Chair while he spoke in clear Russian. “An assassination with no witnesses. Your target is Maxwell Casetta, a man who has wronged us too many times. Any show of noncompliance will result in painful consequences for you, Soldier. Do you understand?”
“Understood.”
“You leave at sundown.”
The mission was no different than any other. The asset was accustomed to the repetitive routine, although the details it was not aware of: mission, memory wipe, sleep. It was only awake when needed. The asset acknowledged the pain it had felt and the numbness it experienced, but the memories of either lacked. It was a weapon, a dangerous soldier that has been trained to kill and nothing more.
It’s freedom was nonexistent, but what weapon was given choices?
The asset was allowed to choose his weapons for this mission though, most likely a choice given in order to lessen the workload of some agent. The asset did not spend much time dwelling on what gun it would rather choose, instead picking its weapons in a matter of seconds based on what the mission would require and nothing else.
The asset was not given any free time after its equipment had been collected, instead being pushed into training that would only benefit it on the mission if his position was compromised. The cause was unlikely as the soldier was trained to be never seen, never caught, to be a ghost.
The asset trained its eye on the target a few hundred feet in front of it, the gun in it’s hands held steady. In just a few seconds, the trigger was pulled and a bullet hit the center of the target. There were no claps, or smiles, or any reactions to the conclusion. The asset only continued shooting the bullets until the clip had run out, easily switching it out and then continuing the process until he was told to stop.
“Soldier.” A man’s voice called, the same one as before, the asset assumed. The soldier stood at attention, but stayed staring ahead with his gun only slightly lowered. “Weapons down, Soldier.” He requested, tone firm, the Russian hitting the asset’s ears in a way the asset found strict, “You leave in five minutes.” The statement was punctuated with not only silence, but an agent shifting his hold on a gun and watching the asset carefully. The action was almost tempting the asset to make use of the gun still held in its hand.
The asset complied though and allowed the two agents that accompanied the man who addressed it to guide him down the hallways until they reached a room that held even more agents and the supplies that the asset had seen earlier in the day. The soldier’s orders were repeated as it reviewed it’s weapons and suited itself.
“No witnesses, Soldier.” The words were tacked on for the second time in the past minute, as if the chance of a witness was higher than it had been earlier. Paying no attention to the change, the asset stood up straighter and adjusted to the new weight of more weaponry that hang from its body. It’s left arm shifted, causing the new tension that found its way into some of the agents’ bodies.
“Understood.” Came the asset’s voice, gruff and low from lack of use.
It would only be a matter of minutes until the asset was removed from the base and then an unknown time where the asset found itself in the middle of the mission.
“How much are you getting paid again?”
The man listened to the question, but waited a few seconds to respond. He busied himself with turning an arrow in his hands, glancing up once he let it go still, “Fifteen thousand,” he responded.
The woman nodded slowly, pushing some of her red hair behind her ear, “Fifteen seems a little low for killing this guy, Clint.”
Clint shrugged, turning and placing the arrow back into his quiver with the rest of the arrows. He eyed the bow that sat next to the quiver in the case before he closed it all up and leaned back against the wooden desk, letting his eyes shift around the room quickly. Clint was glad that they weren’t spending any longer than a day and a half in this hotel room. Even if he checked it for any bugs that had been planted, he never felt he could trust a hotel room for very long.
“I already grabbed some extra from the last job,” he explained easily, “If I take too much from each job, word will get around. You should know that, Nat.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, “I do know that, Clint, but I also get paid more than fifteen thousand for a job.”
Clint watched her as she stood from the bed, tugging at her jacket sleeves. The jacket, Clint noticed, was his and he had a growing feeling he wouldn’t be getting it back by the time they left. He was pretty glad he had packed more than one jacket.
“This Maxwell guy is just another wealthy fucker, so I doubt anyone would be paying anybody anymore than twenty either way. I’ll be getting a better deal soon anyways.” Clint said, his voice confident and earning a roll of eyes from Natasha as she looked through her own gear.
“While you go play, I’ll be out earning much more than fifteen thousand, but I’ll see you.” The phrasing of her last comment allowed Clint the confirmation that he may be leaving the country without Natasha soon and left him wondering when he’d be seeing his friend again, but he hummed and allowed the reply to settle.
“This shit will be easy for me either way. The only part that actually will take just a little more thought is how I’m going to manage to get that arrow back as evidence for my contact.” He pondered aloud, glancing over to where his bow and arrows were safely packed.
“Well, if you don’t get going soon, it won’t matter either way because you’ll miss your mark.” Natasha commented, turning to face Clint with her arms crossed over her chest.
Clint watched her closely, noticing his still present surprise each time he came face to face with Natasha’s new haircut. The bob, matched with bangs, gave her a clean and soft look, but her natural presence, he knew, would make anyone tremble if they got too close. Her clothes, loose and made up of a t-shirt and sweatpants, allowed Clint the wish for a moment of quiet, even if his job didn’t really allow such an opportunity. It’s a nice thought though, especially as he spoke with someone he mostly trusted.
Clint wasn’t very aware of Natasha’s past, fully knowing that she had made up major parts she had told Clint and would most likely never reveal the full truth unless she felt she really could or needed to. He had done the same though, not to really keep himself safe, but to keep her at a reasonable distance in order to keep any order between private life and his career.
Clint hummed, “Good luck, Nat.” He settled on saying, a small smile settling on his lips.
One side of her lips tugged up, “You act as if I need it.” She walked up to Clint though and placed a hand on his shoulder, “If anything, I should be hoping that you don’t get cheated out like this again.”
Clint rolled his eyes, eyes flicking to the electronic clock that was sat on the nightstand in the small bedroom, “You definitely don’t think all that highly of me, do you Natasha?”
Natasha grinned and shrugged, stepping away and returning to her things, “Bye, Clint.” She stated, ending the conversation and giving clue to Clint that it was time for him to head out.
Clint was quick to gather his things, stealing one last glance at Natasha and hoping that he would get the chance to see his friend again, before heading off to the location he was given. He found it almost too easy to slip out undetected and to find an easy route to the roof of a building that was nicely located next to the certain apartment building where he was higher up than where he knew his target would be.
Clint made his way to the edge of the roof carefully, eyeing where he knew the target would be meeting with his team in the alleyway below him. He wasn’t a big fan of having to shoot down into an alleyway when more than one person would be around, but he found that groups like this had a small habit of fleeing when their leader was picked off.
Stepping away from the edge, Clint set himself up. He carefully removed his bow from its case and the quiver full of arrows followed next, eliciting a grin from Clint. He slipped the quiver over his body and held the bow comfortably in his hand, the other hand free and ready to grab an arrow.
Now, he had to play the waiting game.
The asset didn't take the grounds first. It knew which building it’d need to find itself on top of in order to gain the best opportunity for a shot, so he assessed his area from the the spot it knew it was needed to be in.
The asset had been shown the mission’s face, finding a man in his late thirties who seemed to only hold a smug grin. The asset was informed of the events that would occur in the night where he’d take the shot and take down the mission. The asset was also aware of the people who would be in the alleyway, knowing of the similar fates they were going to meet.
It would not be a messy mission for the asset. A gun was easy to clean up after in the asset’s case. Although the asset was unaware of it, he had a faint feeling that there would be much more unpleasant ways for these men to go down. His left hand curled at the thought.
He took in his surroundings carefully and slowly, watching for any movements or things that may affect the mission. The roof lacked any of those things, which brought his gaze to the other buildings. The apartment building next door, on the other side of the alleyway, was void of any activity with its lights dark and lacking many occupants to the Soldier's knowledge.
The building next to the asset on his right, lower and lacking as much cover as the building the asset had climbed, seemed void of anything as well. Despite such a fact, the asset felt a slight unease of trusting the thought of the area being secure. He decided not to dismiss the building and kept a careful eye on the rooftop while he prepared his gun and his area for the mission.
The asset was almost entirely still from where he was hidden from sight. He was positioned at the edge of the roof where he’d be at an angle to take out the mission from behind and be given easy access to where the others would most likely be situated. The gun would make no noise when the shots went off, which would control the situation greatly and give the asset more time than needed to take out the other members.
The asset waited as the night moved along, keeping a careful eye out for any movement.
Clint felt like he was being watched. He wasn’t sure from where or if the feeling was wrong, but he was certain that something was happening.
With the feeling, Clint didn’t dare move until he spotted any movement. He was perched in the shadows of the structures that were built atop the roof, the use of each he couldn’t tell in the dark. He wasn’t certain of how long he had been on the roof either, but one of his legs was growing stiff and the chill in the air was growing to be a real bitch.
He didn’t shift though, focusing on going over the steps he’d have to take in order to avoid injury or attracting too much attention to himself instead. His breathing stayed even and he kept a hand ready to reach for an arrow.
A minute or two after he had gone over his strategy for what felt like the hundredth time (and now he just wanted to actually sit down instead of going over a strategy he already knew before even getting on this roof), a shift in movement down by the street caught his attention.
He slowly shifted in order to get a clear view of the alleyway and street below, finding a man in a long coat, rather cliché in Clint’s mind, who was making his way down the alleyway in a manner that was both stiff and relaxed.
He kept his head down, but based on the neatly styled hair and the evident look of money on the guy, Clint was sure he found the target. He couldn’t take the shot just yet, that he knew, as it would leave too much time in between that point and when the people he was meeting would pop up. It would also leave Clint with the disadvantage of dealing with these guys up close when he attempted to collect his arrow. Based on his position, he would also need to wait for a certain moment for when he could take the shot that would kill the man instead of just an injury that would eventually take him out.
Clint watched closely as the man moved farther into the alley until he had settled against the wall, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He never took out a lighter though. A little pointless to take the cigarette out, no?
It was something close to another minute before any other person made their way into the alley. The motions reminded Clint of a leaky faucet in a way, as it started with one person making their way towards the target and only a second would go by before another would come. As the seconds ticked by, the men came in quicker by the passing second.
Clint couldn’t hear their discussion at all, but he saw the man push himself off of the wall and stand up straighter, as if to make himself look stronger. At this angle, Clint was sure the man would end up shifting into the correct spot soon. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the mark shifted so his back was facing the open street. The movement not only showed the lack of comfortability in the situation, but also gave Clint the perfect area for a clear shot.
He stood up carefully and drew a hand back to slip an arrow out of his quiver, the arrow coming to his front slowly. He moved, quick when nocking the arrow and aimed. He took in a deep breath, readying himself to take the shot and land the arrow right in the perfect spot.
As he was about exhale, and release the arrow, Clint watched as the target dropped and landed on his front.
Clint’s hold on the arrow didn’t lessen, but the breath came out short and his brows furrowed. He was tense now, ready to take out someone else that wasn’t the target that he was supposed to kill (there goes fifteen thousand down the drain) and let his eyes look around just as the four other men that had been with the target drop to their knees and grow lifeless.
What the fuck.
Clint’s hold on the arrow faltered now and he held his breath while anger flooded through him and irritation took charge. Although rather stupid, Clint took a step out from his hidden spot and aimed his arrow again in the direction of where he assumed the shooter was.
Clint faltered again when he came face to face with nothing but a building, but his lack of evidence of a person diminished when he saw the faint glint of metal that stood out against the dull metal and concrete of the roof on the other building.
Against everything that Natasha had told him and his past knowledge, Clint let the arrow fly in the direction of what he assumed was a person. He hadn’t aimed at anything in particular, but had aimed in the general area of where this thing was. Something he wasn’t expecting was when the arrow didn’t make contact with anything.
Clint’s eyes widened slightly as he witnessed the arrow be taken out of its flight before it could even hit anything, having been grabbed. The action wasn’t immediately accompanied by anything, which Clint filled with tucking himself behind his spot again.
Alright, what the hell?
Going against his better judgment, Clint ducked down and rolled out of his spot and landed in a kneel where he took aim again in the direction of the reflective metal. Probably disappointing Natasha even more, Clint decided that this was the best moment to speak up, “Motherfucker, you ruined everything!” He yelled, accompanying the statement with letting another arrow fly.
Perched on the roof and paying no mind to the cold or the gravel of the roof digging into the fabric coating its body, the asset killed the mission and his companions easily by only using up five bullets.
The asset felt nothing as it rose, no remorse or worry of punishment. It hadn’t been expecting much after taking the shot, but it’s body was still aware of it’s surroundings and situation. It hadn’t been expecting an arrow to fly in it’s direction, but it also didn’t hold any surprise as the asset easily grabbed hold of the arrow with it’s gloved right hand. The asset turned it’s head in the direction of where the arrow came from and found itself searching closely in order to find any sign of a person. It spotted the man just before he had ducked behind a metal structure.
The asset let the arrow drop and raised the other gun it had brought with the same hand just as another the man rolled out from his spot.
No witnesses.
Finger pushing down on the trigger to take out the man, the asset was taken aback by the words that came from his mouth.
“Motherfucker, you ruined everything!”
For the first time since the asset could remember, it slipped up. The arrow the man let loose made contact with the asset’s shoulder. The thick fabric sitting there didn’t allow the arrow to bury into deep, but the asset felt the arrow bury into his skin slightly.
With a shaky hand, the asset pulled the arrow out from it’s shoulder and tried it’s best to not let the words spoken echo through his head.
Such stupid words with such little desirable passion behind them. Such stupid words that were engraved in a deep black on the asset’s skin. Such stupid words that were one of the only recurring things in the asset’s life.
Just as the archer moved to shoot another arrow, the asset let anger take place of worry or concern so he could raise his gun.
Fuck those stupid words.
Fuck those stupid, stupid words.
Fuck those stupid words that the asset spent any free time just staring at.
The Soldier was a weapon and nothing more. Words engraved in it’s skin would never change that.
It let a bullet fly at the man, only growing irritated when the man easily moved out of the way of each bullet sent his way. As each bullet flew through the air, the asset inched closer and closer to the edge of the roof in the direction of the man until the asset felt it’s anger swell. The asset let it’s gun drop to the rooftop and easily dismissed an arrow flying it’s way while it replaced the gun with a knife. Despite its sudden emotions, the asset’s face—although mostly covered by a mask and goggles—remained void of any expression.
The asset started forwards at a quicker pace until it was running, seemingly catching the archer by surprise when the asset easily jumped from the rooftop to the next rooftop where the archer was situated.
No witnesses.
The asset had been trained in many types of combat, which gave it an advantage in all fights, this one being no exception.
Emotions were not something for a weapon, but fighting was an even match.
Anger was allowed, the asset decided. The source of the anger the asset didn’t ponder on, but instead let it rush through itself and let it run through the fight.
Clint watched the arrow bury itself into the shoulder of the person on the other roof. He expected a stumble, or a visible show of pain, but all they did was remove the arrow and let it drop.
Clint’s brows furrowed and he removed another arrow from his quiver and took aim. Before he could even let the arrow fly, a bullet came his way. Clint easily moved out of the line of fire and let his arrow loose. For each arrow he let go, a bullet was matched.
Clint’s heartbeat was faster than normal, his body tense from a mix of stress and anticipation. He felt that he wasn’t even a second ahead of each bullet that was shot, causing the archer to grow more anxious and merely hope this other person ran out of bullets before Clint ran out of arrows (which didn’t seem likely).
As the thought crossed his mind, he registered the person’s steps coming closer to the edge of the roof. He let one more arrow fly before the person had dropped their gun and ran towards the edge of the roof.
Clint’s eyes widened for only a brief moment before the person came into Clint’s view as they—he— landed on the roof without any visible signs of discomfort or strain.
Clint watched, almost mesmerized by the man’s smooth movements as he spun the weapon held in hand. A knife, maybe? Alright, yeah, that is a knife that can easily tear through Clint’s skin.
Clint cursed under his breath as he let another arrow fly at the man as he had started towards Clint. The arrow was easily avoided by the man, who took only a slight step to the side to let the arrow fly just above his shoulder.
Recognising his options, Clint let one last arrow fly, more so acting as a distraction, while he took off in the direction of where he knew a fire escape was placed. He had easily decided that if this guy could only let one of, maybe, twenty arrows hit him, and make no visible damage, Clint wouldn’t stand a chance in hand to hand combat. He also was the dumbass who showed up without an extra gun, for once.
His escape was easily tossed aside when a something sharp skimmed the side of his leg, causing a slight stumble on Clint’s part that allowed the man an easy opportunity to grab onto the back of Clint’s shirt.
Clint was tugged backwards, the intent obviously viscous. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he quickly shifted his grip on his bow and, once he was positive he had grown closer, shoved the edge of the bow backwards in order to dig it into the man. Clint didn’t feel the grip lessen on his shirt, but he attempted to turn either way and found himself earning a sound of tearing fabric rather than anything else.
Finding himself at a spot that allowed for what he hoped was a fair fight, Clint wasted no time before he let a punch fly towards the man. His fist never made contact, as a hand grabbed his own with a strong grip. Clint let his eyes asses the situation and— a metal hand?
His observation was pushed aside when the hand tightened its grip on Clint’s fist, earning a muffled groan of pain from Clint, but a shot of terror moved its way down the archer’s spine at the sight of the metal arm.
Clint didn’t let his bow drop either way, quickly shifting his stance in order to attempt to knee the man anywhere. The brief change in the other man’s posture from the attempt allowed Clint barely enough space to dig the edge of his bow back into the man’s side and twist out of his grip. His hand hurt like hell, maybe broken for all Clint knew, but he moved backwards in hopes of putting more space in between him and the man.
The short amount of time that lacked any contact gave Clint a clear view of the other man: tall-ish, but not close to Clint’s own height, white with ragged brown hair. The metal arm was obvious and extremely threatening now, accompanied by the body armor and the abundance of muscle on this guy. The goggles and mask (who actually wore masks in a fight?) covered the majority of his face though, which prevented Clint from getting a clear view of him at all.
Fuck, there was no way Clint was going to win against this guy. He could try his best though.
Mentally, he apologized to Natasha for his obvious stupidity, and tried his best to shoot one more arrow that the man easily avoided. Clint twisted then, attempting to get behind the man and barely succeeding, and started running towards a structure he knew would be easy to climb and most definitely a nice vantage point. He heard the other man follow after him, accompanied by the sound of a gun being loaded.
Clint, in just a quick moment, was able to climb on the structure and aimed an arrow at the man. He let it loose and watched, in slight surprise, when it buried itself in the man’s arm. The man seemed to ignore it though, much to Clint’s confusion. He shot another arrow and was disappointed this time around when it simply left just a small crack in the man’s goggles.
He couldn’t put a title on this man’s fighting style, besides chaotic and lethal, and didn’t understand how he easily dismissed injuries that others would be falling over from. He took notice of the new gun in the man’s hand either way and prayed to whatever god there was before jumping and diving towards him.
The gun never went off as Clint came down towards the man, somehow easily knocking into the man’s shoulder and twisted to get his bow over the guy’s head. The metal arm glinted in the light, much to Clint’s horror, once Clint managed to conclude his action and pull the bow backwards with him as he hit the ground.
He figured this guy was faster, much faster than Clint, so he counted on gravity to have this guy fall to the ground and maybe, just maybe trip him up for a few seconds.
Clint rolled away from the man once he fell to the ground, not far enough to not be in danger, and instead pulled an arrow from his quiver and rose slightly to bury it deep into the same spot he was sure he landed an arrow in earlier. The action was met with him being pushed back into the ground, the other man serving a blow to Clint’s face that most definitely would leave quite the mess.
Rushing to catch up with the sudden change, and the new pounding in Clint’s head from the contact it made with the gravel, Clint allowed too many blows to hit his body.
The man didn’t let up at all, his left hand holding Clint down and his finger’s digging deep enough into Clint’s shoulder that he felt even more pain next to the punches, while his right came down consistently.
In any other given situation, Clint would’ve probably loved being straddled by someone, but now he tried his best to hold back any obvious sounds of pain and tried his best to get the man off of him.
Feeling weaker by the second, Clint didn’t want to admit that he may actually lose this fight for good. Pain and worry crashed over him with each second. Wrapped up in his thoughts, a short, pained, whimper left the archer despite his refusal. The sound was met with hesitation on the other man’s part. No time to be wasted seemingly, the man released Clint and stood, only to pick him up by the front of his shirt and drag him towards the edge of the roof.
Clint looked up at the man with half-lidded eyes. The pain was washing over him in waves and he was very aware of the blood that dripped from his split lip and other wounds that littered his body from the fight.
Clint couldn’t fight back anymore and the thought made a part of him want to shut down. The worse part, he knew, was that he was still living and breathing through his pain. Maybe he would recover, but in the moment Clint couldn’t be sure.
The man released his hold on Clint’s shirt and spared a short glance down at him as he bent down and wrapped his metal hand around his neck instead. Fear taking over, Clint was able to raise his hands and desperately claw at the man’s arm in desperation while he was raised up. The man’s fingers only dug deeper into Clint’s skin, slowly cutting off his oxygen. Clint’s eyes blown wide and his face turning red, made brief, and surprising eye contact with the man.
The goggles had been removed, Clint was unaware of as to when this happened, but the addition only added to Clint’s worries. He was met with a man’s face that was lacking any emotion. Clear, blue eyes were empty and looking at Clint with such a stoic glare that would’ve made Clint uncomfortable if not in the middle of being killed.
As black dots clouded his vision, Clint felt a sudden lack of contact on his neck while his hands slipped from the arm. No nerves or anticipation flooded his body while he watched, lacking any clear vision, as the man’s face grew further and further away while he fell from the roof.
The motherfucker just had to punch, choke, and also drop Clint off a roof, didn’t he?
Clint acknowledged the feeling of objects digging into his back as he ceased in his falling. He had expected concrete and a sickening crack as his body made contact, but his body, although is still hurt, met an impact that was much softer than concrete. A little smellier too.
The last thing Clint saw before his vision went black was the man watching him from the roof, a cold and calculating look on his face before he was out of Clint’s sight. Clint just hoped that maybe he’d get another time to open his eyes.
Cleanup was easy for the asset. The Soldier’s weapons would return with him and be cleaned whereas the bodies would not. He—it collected any evidence needed and rid of the bodies in a simple matter. The only people that would find these bodies would be seeing it as a message and would not call for anybody.
Collecting its weapons, the asset’s eyes flickered to the abandoned bow and the arrows that the archer left behind before his fall.
No witnesses. No evidence.
Putting its own weapons away, the asset made its way to the bow and picked it up. He examined it easily and quickly and did not find anything too special, besides the obvious factor of age despite the noticeable care that had been put into caring for the weapon. Since being shot, the asset had already removed the other arrows that had landed on him and spared no extra thought. The wounds would heal on their own very soon.
The arrows took longer to collect, but the asset eventually made its way to the alleyway.
The soldier’s eyes flickered over to the dumpster where the archer had landed. The asset was not sure why he had pulled his punches and allowed the man a, somewhat, safe fall. He was sure the man would survive if strong enough. The thought of the man surviving irked him, but the asset relied on depending on the man not being strong enough.
For the first time since he could remember, the asset could not think clearly. He—it had recognized the first words he had heard from the man. There were not many memories of the words, but while prepping for the mission, the Soldier had noticed the words printed on his side. A strange phrase, it had decided, one that must’ve been there for a reason.
The asset assumed its handlers were aware of the print, so it released any thoughts it had on the words and had continued preparing for the mission.
They unsettled the asset though when he heard them aloud, as if it was meant to be significant. It followed it’s order though and followed the no witnesses rule to it’s best ability.
The anger the asset had felt still lingered, although some other strange emotion it couldn’t identify coated it. The anger had an uncertain source, but was useful in the fight.
At the thought, the asset turned and started towards where it's desired location for retrieval lay and dumped the bow and arrows along the way. It’s eyes skipped to the blood that had taken various spots on its metal arm, the red no longer surprising against the shiny metal. The blood looked wrong there, for once.
The mission had been taken out and the rules had been followed either way. The asset should not be receiving any punishments.
As the Soldier moved along in the shadows and away from the eye of the public that may be around, it repeated in its head: mission completed, no witnesses, no noncompliance shown.
Maxwell Casetta was just another name on the list of people the Winter Soldier killed.
For just a sweet, beautiful moment when Clint stirred, he forgot about the pain and the stench that surrounded him.
Once that nice little moment was over, Clint was pretty sure he would rather be dead. His eyes slowly opened, the night sky and the outer walls of the buildings coming into view. Clint wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he could easily tell that more than a little time had gone by based on how the sky was much darker than it had been. Clint didn’t try to move a limb of his yet, but darting his eyes back and forth from what he could see, he wisely concluded that he had fallen right into a dumpster.
As a quiet groan left his lips, his ears were met with a relieved sigh. Despite the pain, Clint felt himself tense up, as if he could actually fight someone in the moment. After a short moment of someone shuffling, he was relieved when he saw Natasha’s head appear above his own.
Her brows were furrowed and the look of concern on her features was obvious, “Clint?” She asked, her voice quiet and concerned. Clint noticed then how his hearing wasn’t exactly at its best, with his right ear, luckily not being the one facing Natasha, didn’t seem to be doing its job all that well.
Clint cracked a small smile up at his friend. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he tried his best to let out a few words, he was surprised by the sudden pain that erupted and how the only thing that came out was a hoarse gasp. Natasha reached a hand down and placed it over his mouth with a shake of her head, “There’s some nasty bruises on your neck, Clint. Whoever got to you really fucked you up.” She paused and watched Clint carefully for a moment, “Don’t speak or else it’s just gonna be worse on you.”
Suddenly, her face had disappeared from where he could see. More shuffling could be heard before Natasha popped up again, seeming a bit more at ease and a little taller, “You look like shit by the way.” She commented, eyes assessing his wounds, “But that aside, I’m going to get you outta here, but I need you to help push yourself up.”
Clint tried his best then and gave a short nod and raised an arm to grab onto the edge of the dumpster. The initial pain, he presumed, was from the still open wounds he had, whereas the rest of his body was majorly sore and tense. He felt Natasha grab onto the back of his neck once he had lifted himself just enough. He found her quite helpful then, offering him support as he slowly made his way to sit up.
“Clint, I know this hurts, but you need to try to go a little faster, buddy.” She said, her eyes drifting towards the street at the end of the alleyway, “Whoever your mark is most definitely is going to have some guys out looking for him and we don’t want to be here when they find him dead.”
Clint gave a brief nod before attempting to speed up the process.
Eventually, with a lot of support from Natasha, Clint managed to get out of the dumpster. Once his feet made contact with the cement, his legs nearly gave out on him. He leaned heavily against the wall until Natasha rushed down to his side, pushing an arm around him and doing her best to help him move.
The two walked down the alleyway, keeping to the shadows the best they could, “Both your hearing aids intact?” Natasha asked once they had gotten a few streets away from the dumpster. The hotel was starting to seem a lot farther than it had been when Clint left earlier that day.
Clint reached up slowly and tapped his right ear, which earned a hum of acknowledgement from Natasha, “We'll replace it, don’t worry, Clint.”
Clint left the conversation at a nod.
It was difficult to get back inside their hotel room, but once inside with the door locked, Natasha was much quicker to get Clint into the bathroom and make him sit on the toilet seat.
In the light, Natasha was slightly horrified with what she saw. Clint’s face, covered in his own blood, held multiple cuts and bruises, accompanied with a split lip. The bruising on his neck seemed to be worse than she originally thought and she could see the bloodstains on his pant leg and on parts of other articles of clothing.
She swiftly left the bathroom and returned with her bag where she had been keeping some medical supplies that might help Clint out. Taking another look at her friend, her biggest worries remained on his neck and the obvious cut on his leg.
Clint leaned heavily against the wall to his right, not allowing his eyes to shut. As Natasha got to work on trying her best to patch up Clint, he blocked out thinking about any stitches that were pushed into his skin or any minor burning from antiseptic.
He thought over the fight, thinking closely about what the guy was up to. They obviously had the same target, but based on there being a fight, Clint was pretty sure that this guy was working for someone special or just had some issues. He wouldn’t be surprised by either. He also pretty sure he gets paid a lot more than Clint.
His mind wandered to the metal arm then. People don’t just have metal arms like that, Clint decided. With his foggy head, Clint couldn’t ponder on such a thought for too long, but he made a small reminder to himself to actually think about getting beat up.
At some point, which he didn’t notice, Natasha took a long look at her friend. Her head had moved to wondering about who he had gone up against. She knew Clint was a fighter, so there was no way he just allowed this to happen. He a clever guy, too, so he should’ve been able to manage himself just long enough to get out of there at least.
Once Natasha had finished doing her best to patch Clint, she crossed her arms over her chest, “Clint, you do know we can’t leave when you’re like this, right?”
Clint nodded and looked over to his friend. He raised his hands and sat up a bit straighter and began signing, hoping it didn’t come out too lazy. How bad is it?
Natasha watched his hands and let out a short sigh, “Bad enough that I’m not sure I can help you out entirely.”
Clint let his head fall to the side again, signing. I can’t go to an actual doctor. Too much risk. I am sure you knew that.
She nodded and glanced at the bathroom door, “I know someone who can help you out, but it's a bit shaky in the security part. If I can get you there, we need to make sure what we tell them can’t lead back to us at all.”
Clint nodded and raised a shoulder in a half-assed shrug and raised his hands again. So what did the guy leave me with?
Natasha ran a hand through her hair, “Somehow with how bad your face looks, he left you with a nasty cut on your calf, split lip and some extra cuts and bruises, along with what I hope aren’t broken ribs,” she paused, “But I can't do much about your neck right now since I don’t have the stuff to help with that, but the guy I know can help. In the end, it probably could have been a lot worse.”
Clint nodded and signed back. Sounds great as long as he does not ask for my name or how this happened at all. He confirmed.
Natasha hummed and took a step forward, placing a hand under Clint’s chin in order to turn his face to look more towards her, “We’ll see them tomorrow, alright? I’ll be keeping a close eye on you until then.” She pulled her hand back and held a hand out for Clint to grab, “You’re taking the couch while I call these people, okay?”
Clint gave another hand, grabbing her hand and allowing Natasha to help him to the couch. He still felt rather shitty, and gross, but he knew he’d have to wait for any means of bathing until after Natasha had spoken to whoever she need to so he could confirm he might be up to it.
He settled back into the couch easily, staring at the beige wall next to the small television in front of him. He could vaguely hear Natasha shut the door behind her as she stepped into the bedroom. Irritated by his lack of hearing, Clint reached up and removed his surviving hearing aid and let it drop down next to him on the couch.
Clint tilted his head down slightly to take an actual look at himself, finding his shirt mostly ripped and all articles of clothing on his body dirtied from both the fight and the dumpster. God, he probably smelled terrible. Lifting the leg that had been cut by the knife slightly, he wasn’t surprised by the way his pant leg had been torn for easy access. From the looks of it, the knife didn’t cut nearly as deep as Clint originally thought and the stitches Natasha had done seemed pretty stable. His brows furrowed at the sight, wondering what the rest of his body must look like.
That guy was vicious and most definitely ready to kill Clint if he needed to, so was there some reason behind leaving him to sit rather than take his knife to Clint’s throat?
Clint shut his eyes tightly at that and opted for waiting for Natasha to reappear. Realizing that Natasha was unaware of his lack of hearing aids entirely, he opened his eyes right before Natasha emerged again. She started to speak, but Clint cut her off with the movement of his hands: No hearing aids in.
Natasha paused before she came and sat on the coffee table in front of Clint, raising her hands to sign, We leave at six tomorrow morning and they will not ask any questions.
Clint nodded and watched the concern flush her features again.
Can you recall anything significant about this guy? She questioned.
Clint shrugged, About my height, white, brown hair, blue eyes, and a metal arm.
Natasha visibly tensed at the mention of the description, her hands pausing, How did he fight?
Clint rolled his eyes, Couldn’t really make that out while I was fighting to get out of there alive.
Stubborn as always, Natasha refused to let it drop and instead continued, If you dealt with who I think you dealt with, you shouldn’t even be sitting here. At the comment, Clint’s brows furrowed. She continued, Which arm was metal?
Left, Clint answered easily. Natasha knew who the guy was? Clint couldn’t say he would be that surprised.
Her jaw clenched and her hands dropped into her lap. She hesitated before she ran a hand through her hair. Clint saw her say something, he assumed ‘fuck’ used three times, before she met his eyes, I don’t understand, you should be dead right now.
Clint raised a brow, If you wanted me dead so much, I would think you would have taken me out a long time ago.
She rolled her eyes, If you really fought the guy I think you fought, I don’t know if I should be impressed you lived or if I should be worried he let you live. She seemed to think each idea over.
Not like he knows my name or anything. As long as we get out of the country by the end of the week, I doubt I will see him again. Clint responded, his head starting to hurt and begging for some pain killers he wasn’t sure they had.
Natasha sighed and shook her head, I would never be that sure.
Natasha let the subject drop after that, instead shifting to check how Clint was feeling and her concerns over his injuries. She explained that they probably could leave by the end of the week as long as Clint’s face looked just a little bit better.
Eventually, they ended the subject entirely before shifting to very briefly discussing Natasha’s night.
As she was explaining how she was able to get her target alone, Clint came to the realization that he had no fucking clue where his bow and arrows were.
Feeling bad for interrupting, although deciding that his bow was more important, he signed quickly, Do you have my bow and my arrows?
Her brows furrowed at the question, her eyes moving from Clint’s eyes to behind him briefly before she swore again, Clint assumed. She signed back, I was hoping you knew. She paused, I was on the roof first and saw nothing and they weren’t near or with you.
So they’re just gone? Clint asked.
She hesitated, More so I believe the man took them. The new worry was clear on her face, although she didn’t share the reasoning why. Instead of pushing the subject, Clint his head fall back as he shook his head.
He shot out a couple angry remarks over the loss of his bow, the sadness over the loss leaking in as well. Natasha chose not to respond, instead watching Clint carefully before settling down on the couch next to him once he calmed down.
She patted his knee in what Clint assumed was meant to be comforting. Eventually, she settled her head on Clint’s shoulder. They didn’t converse for some time, instead taking time to pause for just a moment. Later in the night though, she forced Clint to allow her to help him clean up and get out of clothes that couldn’t be saved in any way.
The two didn’t get much sleep after that, mostly from their lack of relaxation that entire night, but managed to gather their needed things and leave the room at six on the dot.
Clint still thought over that stupid fucking metal arm and that motherfucker who ruined his night throughout the morning and afternoon.
The asset was told not to lie, so the asset never did. It learned to tell the truth to its handlers, and only its handlers.
This mission ended differently than the others, the asset decided, based on the glances the agents shared. The man he had seen before he had left shared a few words with another agent before facing the Soldier again, “We have a change of plans, Soldier.” He explained, “No memory wipe this time. You will be leaving again in three days for an additional mission that requires your previous knowledge of Maxwell Casetta.” He continued, eyes trained on the asset.
The asset listened and responded when needed. With a lazy motion of his hand, the man assigned two agents to accompany the asset to it’s living quarters. There, it would be allowed to bathe, eat, and change its clothes in return for lack on noncompliance on the mission.
No witnesses.
The words echoed in the asset’s head vaguely as it was directed to its quarters. The asset decided that it did not lie when asked if there were any witnesses.
No witnesses, it had stated with no hesitation.
It was not sure what the reaction had been on the man, mostly from the lack of expression on his face.
The statement was not a lie. The asset had terminated the witness, having inflicted enough damage it assumed would kill the man in little time.
He assumed.
The uncertainty in the thought was dismissed easily by the asset, along with worries over the possibility of lying.
The agents each took a side of the door once they reached the asset’s living quarters.
In a clipped tone, one of the agents addressed the Soldier, “Bathe, change, and food will arrive.” The door was pushed open then and the asset entered after giving a short nod in understanding.
It heard the click of the heavy lock that laid on the outside of the door, giving the asset a clue to being locked inside.
The plain room was nothing more than concrete with a small, metal bed frame with a sleeping mat upon it and an archway that let to a small bathroom. Said room consisted of more concrete and an old shower head and an equally aged toilet.
The asset took notice of the clothes thrown upon the sleeping mat, being nothing more than a white A-shirt and dark sweatpants. The clothes were not clean, the asset could easily tell. Most likely, they had not been washed since whenever the asset last wore them.
The asset easily stripped itself of its clothing and took the few steps to the bathroom. It stepped under the shower head and turned the slightly rusted knob. When the cold water made contact with the asset’s skin, it did not flinch, instead plucking the small and used bar of soap from its makeshift ledge in the wall. The asset knew time was important in these times, so it did not spend any longer than a few minutes bathing.
By the time the water had turned off, the asset was also aware of the main door being momentarily unlocked and an agent entering the room. The asset stood under the shower head for a few moments more until the door made an audible click again.
When the asset moved from its spot and back to the area of the sleeping mat, it saw a tray of food set on top of the clothes it would change into. It’s mission clothes had been temporarily removed from where the asset had left them.
It easily moved the tray out of the way while it picked up the clothing with its other hand. The asset set the tray down carefully before moving onto pulling on the clothing in its hand.
Before the asset pulled on the last article of clothing, the A-shirt, it took a look at its side. The words were still sat evenly on its skin, the deep black obvious against the skin.
‘Motherfucker, you ruined everything!’ was written in a messy scrawl, the space between the letters lacking slightly and every other letter connecting. The asset expected a new swell of anger at the sight, but instead it felt nothing.
It wasn’t sure which it would rather feel.
At the acknowledgment of the words engraved in its skin, the area prickled with pain. With furrowed brows, the asset felt the pain increase until it felt as if it’s skin was being burned. The asset watched closely as the area turned pink, the pain being pushed away with just a short acknowledgement. As the pink grew, the letters’ color shifted from their black to a rich red.
The pain disappeared after a few short moments and instead left the asset staring at the spot in confusion. Almost to the asset’s horror, a flash of the sight of blood splattered on the metal of its arm came to its mind.
The asset allowed thoughts to push through for once, feeling worry and a faint sadness at once.
The asset, alone, much to its despair could not remember what these words were for. They were a stable part of the asset’s time though. It took comfort in the only familiar thing it knew about. It was unaware to the reason of why a memory wipe did not remove this information.
Was that the source of it’s anger?
The asset found familiarity in the phrase, and the use of it from a witness to a mission didn’t seem fair in a way. The phrase was something on the asset’s body, maybe even something that was his.
The asset partly feared and partly loved the idea of having the ownership of this part of itself.
It slowly moved its left hand, trailing its fingers over the scrawl on it’s right side. The moment felt too personal, too intimate, for the asset.
Quickly, it tugged on the A-shirt and ignored the quickening of its heartbeat.
It took a seat on the sleeping mat and started on the food on the tray. It was easily described: bland, dull, and only holding what was absolutely needed.
It set the tray aside, placing it on the ground a couple feet away.
The asset moved to lay on its back once the tray had been set down. The only thing it saw was the faint sight of the concrete roof. The room was pushed into darkness long ago, with only a single light adding any light at all.
The asset’s enhancements didn’t allow such a worry though. At the point it was at, food and a time to rest was not a necessity but rather a luxury that was not currently needed. Perhaps it was nice, but the asset was more accustomed to long times without food while it acted on a mission.
The asset did not sleep much, although its mind did not wander very far.
By the second day of three before its next mission, the asset had adapted to the idea of having something.
The words, now red, engraved into its skin belonged to the asset. They should not be taken.
The asset was not allowed these things and in the moment the asset was brought in for a briefing of it’s next mission, the agents had discovered the red words.
He had gone with a fight while they pulled him to the locked room holding The Chair. The metal of the arm did not lack at least some of the agent’s blood by the time they got him into the room.
The wicked grin on the man’s face as the asset was strapped into the chair angered the asset and for the first time created fear in it that settled in it’s bones because the asset didn’t want to forget this. It didn’t want to forget the one thing that was his.
“Soldier,” the man addressed with a shake of his head, “You are a weapon of Hydra. You do not involve yourself in such human things such as that mark.” The grin grew slightly as he saw the asset’s chest rise and fall with it’s heavy breathing, “A shame, truly. You were doing so well.”
That was the last thing the asset heard before the pain started and a scream ripped its way out of his throat.