The Ghost of Winter

Reed looked balefully at the assassin looming over him before yawning, teeth sliding forward in a semi-threatening gesture before resting his head on top of his crossed hands, claws sheathed for now.

It was a dismissal and Bucky knew it.

Clint had outright said so in distraught misplaced anger when he’d arisen days earlier. In fact he’d yelled it, despite knowing it were futile and dumb and just broadcasted his location so nicely should any enterprising SHIELD bag n’ tag team be loitering, and proceeded to ragingly kick and scrape at the message in the dirt. 

Okay, so he was a little more than upset, but he was fucking stressed to the max. They’d been doing well after the last attack; the barn had provided a great shelter while they recouped from their collective injuries, and Clint had been making plans to go and scope out further east to make for the yukon border to get the out of Alaska.

Keyword: had. His new plans changed to go collect his had-been killer turned fellow fugitive, which meant he’d had very little time to waste. 

Logic told him that heading east was smart. East meant the yukon. Wilderness that was just as hazardous but just as prosperous. That had legal issues when it came to a militarised US unit just casually dropping teams in to go on a little manhunt. Clint knew, whether instinctually or just because it seemed very Reed-like, that his companion would’ve done anything but go in that direction because of that, which meant he began to retrace the hazardous path they’d taken to end up at the barn.

Something a little easier said than done when said asshole cat-man wasn’t making the trail nearly impossible to keep. 

So instead of directly following any trail, Clint fell back on his own logic: if Reed was indeed heading west, he’d be making toward their nearest populous landmark – maybe to turn himself in for some reason or find his own way out – which happened to be Palmer. A day trip out from his former wilderness residence, which meant a few days out from the progress they’d made overall to get away from there. 

And it had been a long, long trek solo. 

He’d began to keep a constant sideline with the Matanuska River, it’s water a vital resource along with it being the very same river that would eventually lead him directly to Palmer, and it eventually paid off. For how crap his hearing was, Clint’s sight made up for it tenfold, and he picked up a very distinctive shape slinking through the wilderness after searching for far too long.

Reed.

Sometimes gut instincts paid off in spades. 

But Clint’s gut was also telling him that things weren’t exactly right – that he wasn’t the only one who had an eye on Reed. He was hardly going to just run up to the guy and risk being disembowelled for the surprise, so Clint took to higher ground to ascertain any dangers. Took to living up to his once-loved moniker of being the Hawk. 

That was when he saw it. 

There was zero hesitation on the archer’s behalf. Clint had a weighted arrow drawn as soon as he saw the glint of metal in his high-contrast vision, the fletch drawn back firm against his cheek as he tracked the trajectory mentally. 

The wind was low. Barely even a breeze. He’d hit the glinting metal dead on.

The arrow loosed. Clint didn’t even need to hear if he’d made his mark (not like he could anyway), the jerk of his target as the rifle he was shouldering fired came back to him in feedback, letting him know the grapple had well and truly anchored. 

“Get over here, you son’ova bitch,” Clint roared.

Both arms rippled with exertion despite injury as he yanked the reinforced chaining cord his bow was linked to. Hard. 

He’d never deny the satisfaction in seeing a look of sheer shock and awe cross the assassin’s face in the split second between the line tensing and then kinetic force doing it’s job to rip the other man right out of the goddamn tree. 

Because it was pretty goddamn satisfying. 

A press of a button on the specially modified riser and grip saw the chaining cord release from his bow (because being jerked into the permafrost himself wasn’t in the agenda today) before Clint hastily descended from his vantage, picking up the pace despite the slippery terrain to try and make it toward Reed, praying to whatever damn God would listen that his goddamn stupid runaway man-cat-friend was okay.

….and bounced off, flattened.

The round clearly was a standard high caliber round but not armour piercing or explosive, so sheer kinetic force wasn’t enough to tear through Reed’s kevlar-like hide. It did however, hurt like hell and no doubt would swell and discolour into a truly impressive bruise.

It was certainly painful enough to make him roar in frustration, lips and flanges curling back to reveal his teeth, razor sharp and glinting in the weak winter sun. And now he knew where the hunter was, he could turn the tables.

Well, he would have, if his target hadn’t just fallen out of the tree. No- been pulled out. By a grappling arrow. Shot by Clint.

Reed’s ears flattened in submission because Clint looked pissed. At the assassin and at him. He really, really wished he could talk, maybe try to explain why he’d run off but in the time he’d been mentally processing what had just happened, Clint was right in his face and punched him square in the long snout.

It was enough to knock him off his feet, snow scattering as Reed rolled back into his feet, growling a warning tone that was more than half assed. In truth, he was glad Clint was here, even if he was not so glad he’d hit in the face.

Not that either of them had time to hug it out or punch it out as the assassin Reed had been [poorly] tracking rose to his feet, rifle pointed at Clint. The second shot missed; if only because Reed formed a long, sweeping, whip-like tail and knocked the archer right on his ass.

The bullet hit his flank; the blunt, stinging pain irritating Reed more than anything.

Enough playing.

Reed sprang forward, closing the distance between himself and the masked assassin, jaws ready to snap down and kill.

Seemed he wasn’t the only one with super-human reflexes; the assassin brought the metal arm [armour?] above his face, Reed’s jaws clamping down hard.

Hard enough that any armour should have bowed or buckled, but instead his teeth slipped and failed to get any purchase on the metal arm. An arm that was strong enough to pull Reed off the ground with little signs of strain.

His handlers had assumed the Archer had been killed by his Target before he had gone rogue, but that was clearly not the case. It was outside parameters for him to engage marks not approved by the Secretary, but as he staggered back to his feet and retrieved the rifle the Archer and the Mark appeared to be conversing. Or, the Archer was punching his Target. Close enough. He’d been seen and physically compromised by the sudden arrival of the other man, and therefore it was within his digression whether or not to terminate him.

He raised the rifle and fired of another round, but the damned creature had lighting reflexes and knocked the Archer down and away from the bullet’s path. It slapped harmlessly against his Mark’s flank, propelling him forward like a horse smacked with a crop. He barely had enough time to bring his arm up to catch the snarling jaws before they clamped down on his throat.

The Target was deceptively strong and easily knocked him back down onto his back, a vulnerable and less than ideal situation. He could feel razored teeth gnawing angrily at his prosthetic but thankfully it was holding, giving him enough time to piece together a haphazard counter.

His free hand produced a knife and he jammed it solidly into the Mark’s eye, twisting it with a loud squelch of wet flesh rending. He brought his knees up and kicked at the rapidly-bruising mark blossoming across the Target’s chest, digging the steel crampons he’d used to climb the tree as hard into the tough, rubbery hide as he could. A breath hissed out from behind his muzzle-mask, eyes narrowing as he shoved the knife in deeper and tried to reposition his arm. Maybe if he could get his hand in those jaws he could do some serious damage, or at least enough to get him to stop chewing on him.

Time didn’t have much context or point for the two fugitives hiding out in the abandoned farm, literally out in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. The barn was dry, if not musty and very little interrupted the cycle of sleep, eat, check lures and snares and more sleep.

Neither Clint or Reed were thinking beyond the next meal or when they’d doze off. Clint’s injuries from the SHEILD ambush had caught up with him and moving was a chore, one that had to be done. He’d condense everything into one go; painfully climbing down the ladder, wandering to the outside of the barn to take a piss before making a circuit around the sparse trees that surrounded their temporary bolthole, collecting rabbits and the occasional grouse that snared themselves in the primitive but effective traps Clint had set up.

As much as Clint liked to bitch about Reed not doing anything, there really wasn’t much he could do, in his current state. He was confined to using only three of his four limbs, the hasty removal of his tracking chip making a mess of the rubbery muscles of his shoulder. He couldn’t run down deer or any large game and spent most of the first week sleeping off the heavy combination of exhaustion and pain. Teeth that could slice through bone weren’t much good for handling smaller game, unless Clint was in the mood for minced rabbit. So the regressed scientist was on space heater duty, encouraged to lay in piles of hay so then Clint had a warm nest to rug up in when the suns weak rays failed to warm anything up and the nights turned bitter cold.

The pair would then doze together in a tangled pile of limbs, sometimes peacefully, sometimes with thrashing and snarling, but it was a co-opted existence.

For a while, at least.

The problem was, even with Reed’s genius yoked by trauma and conditioning and a savage instinct brought forward by mutation, he could still think. Still brood. Only that mind now went in circles and drew patterns, not based on fact but on causality and observation.

Observation: SHIELD seemed to be able to follow him. The chip was gone but SHIELD was big and had a lot of resources.

Observation: Clint tended to get the shit kicked out of him when he was around.

Observation: They had to leave Clint’s cabin because of him.

Observation: SHIELD would hunt them. But they seemed to be able to hunt one at a time.

Observation: Reed didn’t want Clint to get hurt again.

Causality: Reed got Clint hurt too often.

So his regressed mind drew up a simple plan. Leave. Go the opposite way Clint wanted to go; find the hunters. And make them hunt him. Wear them out. Kill them until there was no one left or they considered his rubbery hide the trophy they wanted.

A word floated up into his mind; equivalence. Clint had risked everything to give him a chance, so now it was his turn.

Reed wiggled out from Clint’s prone, snoring body, making sure the rough blanket they’d kept was draped over his shoulders, keeping him warm until the sun rose again. His shoulder was mostly mended, enough he could run, move, fight until he had nothing left. With a silent leap, he jumped down from the loft, paws absorbing the shock and sound. His collarbone tingled but it was a minor pain. He started to leave, but was held back by something. Something very…Reed huffed.

He should leave a message. He still could not speak beyond growls, but shapes sprang into his mind, one front hand-paw dragging them into the dirt and dust to form one word.

Sorry.

Then all hesitation flew from him, as he lunged into action, running back towards the site of the ambush, back towards Palmer. Back to where it all started.

Hours passed, Reed scuffing his trail so Clint wouldn’t follow. The encampment where they had been attacked by SHIELD was iced over; what little human remains were left had been gnawed on by animals. Fresh packed snow covered the gory blood splatters and equipment. He paused for a while, stopping to sniff the ground; no fresh scent of people, only wolves, bears and foxes had been, eager to pick clean the carnage he had left.

So Reed left and headed along the river. For days he trotted along the bank of the river, an easy stride that a human couldn’t match, looking for signs, items, smells, anything to give him a bead on what he was looking for. For who he was looking for. The fat salmon along the banks kept him fed while he hunted.

There was a predator out here. He just had to find who it was.

Then again, the Soldier had done more with far, far less against more violent marks.

He took a steadying breath, slowing his heart-rate as he leveled the rifle again, aiming for a clean, quick kill. The thick black muzzle-mask kept his breath from fogging and disrupting his eyesight, the thick white winter gear from letting him be spotted, melting him into the woven backdrop of snowy branches of the canopy. The way his mark continued to scent the air made something like apprehension wisp through his thoughts. There was no way he could have been detected so soon, but, this wasn’t an ordinary target he was dealing with. He had only dim memories of the last time a mark had been so cautious and expecting; he remembered sand and heat and desert wind, a woman with hair as red as the blood that poured down her abdomen from a bullet-wound of his own dealing.

The Soldier had heard reports of the carnage that had befallen the prior retrieval team but he was not going to fail. He had never failed a mission, and he was not going to start now. Metal fingers softly brushed the trigger-guard as he once again leveled the heavy rifle, the prosthetic impervious to the cold. Even with his outward body language heavily restrained the cold that swirled around him settled in his core with unease; the whistling wind and softly falling snow conjured fragmented, fractured glimpses of a deep ravine and a bright flash of blue and falling, falling, falling from his hindbrain.

His gaze had gone unfocused, his body tense from the alien flashes of dream-- memory?-- before they dissipated. By the time he brought his eye to the scope again his mark had had ample time to survey his surroundings and had moved, putting a tree in the Soldier’s eyeline. He didn’t know if his cover had been compromised but he didn’t move, remaining as still as death on his perch, watching his target’s every move through the scope.

The snowfall was growing heavier, the brief icy touch of each flake stinging the Soldier’s exposed skin as it melted but he didn’t so much as dare to breathe too loud. His patience was endless; he had waited in his tree for hours before the mark had shown himself, and he would wait hours more if need be to wait for the perfect opportunity to take the shot. Time dragged on, and as it did he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He was unsure if it was from his mark or possibly from some other animal, but he refused to let it distract him. He was a weapon, and weapons did not get distracted.

When his mark finally did move the scant inches he needed to attempt the shot did the Soldier finally move. Silvered fingers slid the bolt as silently as possible, chambering the round with a soft clink of metal. It sounded deafening to his own ears but he hoped it wasn’t enough to betray his position.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The crosshairs of the scope leveled over the mark’s chest. Quick and painless.

Heart slowed, he waited for the lull in the beat before he took the shot.

I Come with Knives - IAMX

Avengers Assemble #12

tragedy: a curious art form (pt. 1)