First Person Shooter (W.I.P.)
Authorâs Note: Â I was teaching the day two troubled boys, likely mentally ill, shot up Columbine High School. Â The middle school I taught at was attached to our townâs high school. Â I remember staring at the news report, not wanting to believe it, tears rolling down my face. Â The shooters reminded me of kids I knew in our school... and i shuddered. Â I watched more news stories like that happen over the following years... as a teacher, I wondered - would I run? Â Could I throw myself over a student, shielding her with my own body at the cost of my life? Â Could I talk some sense into the shooter who was, after all, just a young person - not much more than a child?
I was teaching the day a mentally ill high school student murdered a classful of kindergarten students two towns over from my school. Â At the time, my son was the same age. Â I had to keep teaching through the lockdown, telling my fourth grade students that everything was fine, even as announcements over the intercom let them know it wasnât. Â The hard part? Â Not going for my phone to call my husband, wanting nothing more than to hug my boy, my heart breaking for the parents waiting to find out if their child was among the dead. Â I cried for days. Â I still have nightmares where my son is dead in my arms.
I wrote this in the days after the Newtown tragedy. Â It was my way of healing. Â Itâs fragments of a story, not a complete story, and largely in comic script form - not a lot of direction to the artist, as Marvel and I both feel that itâs not necessary. Â Itâs only now that I feel ready to share it. Â It is set in Matt Fractionâs HAWKEYE series.
No. I probably wonât ever finish it... the parts I needed to write are written. Â If you feel moved to finish it for me, please do... just give me co-credit writing.
I hope you never need to go through this sort of thing yourself.
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Hawkeye: Â First Person Shooter
Just another day - another gray midwinter day in New York City. Â Cold, raw drizzle, but no snow... Colds that won't go away... That long stretch between the holidays and a point when it's really worth going outside. Â Clint is working on refinishing an antique bow when the phone rings. Â It's Kate, and she's crying almost too hard to be understood.
Clint... oh, god... Clint, Clint...
Kate? Â Katie, whatâs wrong? Â Whatâs...
...the news. Â Turn on the t.v. Â Oh, god, Clint...
Cut to the tv screen - standard local news. Â Grim anchor, cut to grimmer on-site reporter. Â Police cars, fire, ambulance, lights flashing. Â A low brick building. Â A school. Â A shot of the entry sign - an elementary school. Â More shots - children being hurried across an open space. Â A photo of two young men - looks like high school yearbook shot. Â Banner across the bottom screams the message - SCHOOL SHOOTING.
... Confirmed that one suspect has been shot dead by police, but that a second shooter is still at large. Â Details are...
Oh... god. Â Not again. Â Not @#$ again...
Iâm coming over... I need... I canât... I just... it's worse than the last time. Â They're saying... Oh, god, I'm gonna be sick...
Iâm here, Katie. Â Come over.
Shit. Â Shit shit shit. Â Not again. Â Youâd think that there would only be so much hell on earth people could take, some limit to the evil people could do... but whoâs he kidding? Â Heâs seen the worst. Â Heâs seen the world freakinâ end, for chrissakes. Â There is no limit to the evil people can do to one another...
But there IS a limit to how much people can take.
Another call. Â Another voice on the line, just as strained, but not in tears.
Clint, we have a situation. Â Iâm calling you in.
Not a good time, Cap... have you...
Iâve seen the news. Â (beat) Â We ALL saw the news.
(eyes closed, face infinitely weary)
(bolt upright now, eyes wide)
We need you to find her and bring her in. Â Before...
He doesnât need to say anything else. Â No need - they both know where Natasha has gone. Â Sheâs gone after the shooter. Â Clint slaps the phone shut, buries his face in his hands. Â Shit. Â
(coming in the door, body language tentative, off his obvious distress)
(up, grabbing his jacket, grabbing his bow and quiver.)
Weâre going to Connecticut.
FLASHBACK - December. Â Just before Christmas. Â Avengers Tower. Â A Friday night... and it should have been a Christmas party. Â Only nobody feels much like celebrating. Â Not with that news on the big screen. Â Various Avengers are clustered around the set, faces showing varied reactions - grief, disbelief, horror, tears. Â Clint has been consoling Jessica, who is visibly shaken and crying... but heâs also the one who notices Natasha, alone, on the periphery. Â Visibly NOT watching the screen. Â Not watching... but all too aware of exactly whatâs happened. Â Clint leaves Jessica with a tissue and a mug of something warm, makes his way out of the light and company to Natasha, in the shadows by the windows.
I didnât ask. (beat) Â And youâre not, by the way. Â None of us are.
Then Iâll BE fine. Â Itâs not as if... Â (close on her eyes, haunted) Â Not as if I havenât seen this sort of thing before.
I know. Â And thatâs why I know youâre NOT fine. Â If you really were fine... that wouldnât be fine. Â That would be just... wrong.
He puts a hand on her shoulder, and after a moment she covers it with her own, but still doesnât look at him.
I hate it when you do that.
Youâre my best friend. Â Itâs my job to know things. Â To be there.
Even when I donât want you to be?
Especially when you donât want me to be. Â (A beat, and he looks into her haunted eyes.) Â Youâre thinking about the orphanage. Â Donât. Â Donât do that to yourself, Nat.
They were so young... (Sheâs tearing up now.) Â It shouldnât have happened. Â Not then... not now. Â I should have been stronger. Â I should have...
Death is too good for him! Â (Whirls on him, because heâs the only one there, angry now.) Â Death... shooting him... it was too easy. Â Too quick. Â He should have LIVED, Clint... should have had to face... should have had to know...
But Iâd have slit his throat myself, if Iâd been there! Â (The tears spill, and she breaks away.) Â Or his gut. Â A bullet in his gut. Â As slow, bleeding death... looking at their faces... looking at all those little faces...
Sometimes, we donât get a say. Â Itâs done. Â You weren't there. Â None of us were.
But, if... Nothing. Â It's awful. Â It happened. Â But... It's done. Â All that's left is the grieving. Â And the healing. Â
Natasha has the shooter pinned against a tree. Â One knife to his throat... One to his abdomen. Â He's a kid... Maybe sixteen. Â Wide eyes under a black ski mask, pushed up his forehead. Â He doesn't seem to understand what's going on. Â He's sweating, muttering, hands picking at his jeans, his guns on the grass.
Both Hawkeyes have drawn and sighted. Â Clint steps out, letting himself be seen.
Nat... You don't want to do this.
Neither do you. Â He deserves to suffer, Clint. Â To know how it feels to be powerless in the face of evil.
You aren't evil, Nat. Â You're not that person anymore.
I'll always be that person, Clint! Â Always. Â When you've done what he's done... What I've done... It's always there. Â Inside you. Â Always. Â Those faces...
(Sheâs losing it... close to hysteria, caught up in her own memories, her own pain.)
He needs to see the faces. Â He needs to see, and hurt, and ... And...
And it won't change the past. It won't bring them back... Any of them. Â If you do this, it's just one more ghost following you around. Â (beat) Â Â Let it go, Nat. Â
(He lowers the bow, holding out a hand to her.).
For a long moment, she doesn't move. Â Then her head droops, her shoulders sag, and she flings the knives away. Â She stumbles into Clint, who folds her into a protective embrace, steering her further away from the still-muttering kid. Â He doesn't see the kid's eyes flash, falling on the guns... But then, he doesn't need to.
(Staying under cover, watching, her own eyes glinting with tears.)
Give me a reason. Â Go ahead. Â Give me a reason to call it self defense.
(She lets him kneel, fumbling for the weapon, lets him almost get it loaded... Almost.).
With an expression that says plainly that she's probably going to regret this, she lets an arrow fly. Â It hits the gun, pinning it to the ground through its trigger. Â The shooter looks up, startled, as Kate breaks cover and uses the bow as a pole arm, whacking him hard across the face. Â He sprawls, out cold..
Now I gotta clean my bow. Â Lovely.