Questa che vi sto proponendo è una fanfiction che sto portando avanti da un annetto su EFP e da poco tempo anche su wattpad. E’ la storia che ho creato intorno a Phil Coulson, mio personaggio preferito della MCU e, di conseguenza, di Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. , dove incontra una ragazza, senza identità, con un codice al posto del nome e zero conoscenza del mondo esterno alla realtà di reclusione che ha vissuto fino al loro primo incontro. Comincia nel 2002, circa una decina di anni prima i fatti di Marvel’s The Avengers, mese più, mese meno.
Il dolore era insopportabile. Lo era stato la maggior parte delle altre volte in cui 3-1-7 era stata sottoposta ad esami ed esperimenti, eticamente dubbi, per riuscire a scoprire l'origine dei suoi poteri. Durante quegli anni in cui aveva vissuto nel l'istituto l'avevano sottoposta ad un numero davvero inquietante di interventi, la maggior parte dei quali alla testa. Le avevano innestato svariati rilevatori di ultima micro-tecnologia-neurale in modo da poter monitorare il picco di attività cerebrale durante il manifestarsi del suo “dono”. E ogni volta, puntualmente, lei li aveva involontariamente fulminati, annullando così gli sforzi dei ricercatori. Ma in quel pomeriggio, nel preciso istante in cui uno dei medici aveva cominciato a trapanarle il cranio dietro la nuca per farvi passare una delle nano-sonde-neurali , qualcosa dentro la cavia 3-1-7 si ruppe. No, non parte dell'osso occipitale… ma qualcosa dentro di lei, ovvero il bisogno estenuante di continuare ad obbedire. Perché? Si era chiesta. Strinse i denti per riuscire a sopportare il dolore e fare chiarezza nella sua mente martoriata, gridò mentalmente per trovare la forza di puntellare le mani e i gomiti sul lettino. Aveva difficoltà a mettere a fuoco i propri pensieri. Poche ore prima aveva subito un trattamento psicosomatico che la costringeva ad obbedire, a non ribellarsi, e i postumi erano gravi carenze di concentrazione. Ultimamente quel trattamento su 3-1-7 aveva sempre meno effetto e aveva ripreso a ricordare come mai fosse lì, e come mai avevano cominciato ad obbligarla ad obbedire… Semplice! Durante uno degli esperimenti, anni prima, aveva tentato di ‘ribellarsi’. Parola curiosa non trovate?! R-I-B-E-L-L-A-R-S-I.
Sentì un tonfo metallico e un rumore stridente, girò la testa e vide il medico in ginocchio con gli occhi sbarrati e gonfi di lacrime che si reggeva la testa in un urlo soffocato. 3-1-7 ne approfittò alzandosi carponi sul lettino, utilizzò le proprie sensazioni per trasformarle in una sorta di enrgia e rompere i lacci che la tenevano, respirò a fondo cercando di racimolare un po’ di auto-controllo. Si girò verso il medico che aveva recuperato lucidità e allarmato si stava alzando a cercare probabilmente degli anestetizzanti o peggio il teaser in uno degli scaffali lì di fronte. La paura ebbe il sopravvento su 3-1-7. Si alzò dal lettino traballando, doveva fermarlo prima che lui fermasse lei, gli afferrò un braccio e sentì la rabbia, la sorpresa e la paura dell'uomo passarle per la pelle, con l'altra mano gli afferrò il viso per intralciargli la vista e allontanarlo dagli scaffali. Lui la colpì al petto con forza, senza scrupoli, per allontanarla ma qualcosa fece *chlack*… un rumore bagnato, viscido che non proveniva dalla stanza. Solamente 3-1-7 era stata capace di percepirlo. Lo aveva provocato lei. Con il contatto fisico della sua mano sul volto dell'uomo era arrivata a toccare la sua mente, aveva toccato la sua paura e percepito la corrente elettrica delle sue sinapsi che lavoravano veloci per elaborare un piano…e lei le aveva interrotte bruscamente. L'uomo sbarrò gli occhi e cadde in terra con un tonfo sordo. La ragazza lo guardò terrorizzata portandosi le mani al petto come se avesse preso la scossa, aveva perso il controllo e sapeva di aver superato il limite, l'unico sua possibilità in quel momento era scappare… Si, ma come? Non aveva la benché minima idea di come poter uscire di lì, non conosceva il luogo in cui aveva vissuto per 18 anni, era sempre stata dentro le solite 20 stanze, bianche e asettiche, senza mai vedere il mondo esterno. Il pensiero era tremendamente deprimente ma doveva sorvolare e cercare di pensare alla svelta. Non riusciva a trovare la lucidità, si guardò attorno e spinta più dalla paura e dall'istinto che dalla ragione aprì la porta e uscì nel corridoio cominciando a correre, non importava la direzione bastava non rimanere ferma, come un animale chiuso in gabbia. In fondo al corridoio si schierarono tre agenti vestiti di nero, muniti di casco e visiera. Loro erano i guardiani, coloro che si occupavano di non far scappare le cavie, 3-1-7 li vedeva sempre fare le ronde nei corridoi a due a due. Dei tre quello centrale le si scagliò contro, l'afferrò per le spalle e la sbatté contro il muro con una forza spiazzante. Lei rimbalzò e cadde in terra, cercò di tirarsi in piedi ma l'equilibrio le venne meno lasciandola brancolare sul pavimento con la vista annebbiata. Gli altri due le puntarono le armi contro in sincrono, in un gesto meccanico, rimanendo immobili, mentre quello che l'aveva colpita la immobilizzò. «FERMI!» una voce fermò l'azione. Alzarono tutti gli occhi verso l'altro capo del corridoio. Il secondo medico, di cui 3-1-7 ne aveva dimenticata l'esistenza e che qualche attimo prima che lei si ficcasse nei guai era uscito momentaneamente dalla sala operatoria, li stava raggiungendo a corsa. «Me ne occupo io!» Aveva le mani alzate e mostrava qualcosa che 3-1-7 non riusciva a mettere a fuoco. L'agente che la teneva a terra allentò la presa mentre gli altri due si allontanarono tornando alle loro posizioni, e lei ne approfittò, si voltò il più velocemente possibile trasportata da una scarica di adrenalina, gli afferrò il volto come aveva fatto poco prima con l'altro uomo, lui la colpì con un pugno in bocca e *chlack*…le cadde addosso, pesante e senza vita. 3-1-7 cercò di liberarsi dal peso del corpo inerme dell'agente ma era troppo per lei, l'adrenalina la stava abbandonando lasciandola indifesa. Sbatté gli occhi per schiarirsi la vista. Vide il medico sopra di lei, cercò di toccarlo allungando una mano verso di lui, partì l'allarme che assordò entrambi e che le fece chiudere gli occhi, gli altri due agenti non avevano perso tempo e spaventati avevano preso precauzioni. F.Z.Z.T. una scossa elettrica le passò per tutto il corpo e quasi immediatamente le mozzò il fiato lasciandola priva di sensi.
«Aiutami! Invece di star lì a tenere lo sportello…quello sta aperto anche da solo!» disse un uomo, vestito di nero, da dentro un furgone parcheggiato in un vicolo buio. «Magari se tu fossi un po’ più cortese…» rispose l'altro, con ancora il camice addosso, abbastanza spazientito. «Oh mi scusi dottore! Le dispiacerebbe darmi una mano, sa sono un po’ incasinato qui dentro?! COSI’ VA MEGLIO PEZZO D'IDIOTA?» L'uomo con il camice bianco prese la cavia 3-1-7 ancora priva di sensi per le gambe e aiutò l'altro uomo a portarla fuori dal vano e a poggiarla sul marciapiede umido e maleodorante. «Sbrigati, falle l'iniezione e andiamocene, prima che passi qualcuno di qui…» Il dottore alzò gli occhi al cielo, prese una siringa e tre fiale dalla tasca del camice spiegazzato. «Chi vuoi che passi di qui?» Caricò la siringa con il liquido delle tre fiale e ne cominciò a premere lo stantuffo per sistemarla. In realtà per il loro scopo non importava davvero eliminare l'aria all'interno della siringa, era più un gesto abituale il suo. «Questa dose dovrebbe bastare a…» «DOVREBBE?» Lo interruppe arrabbiato l'altro.« Sii certo che la metta k.o. non voglio storie con il capo. Se scopre quello che è successo la nostra coscienza, se ne abbiamo una, sarà l'ultimo nostro rimorso.» L'uomo in nero sbatté lo sportello del furgone innervosito e spaventato. Dovevano mandare in overdose mortale la ragazza, così da lasciarla lì e farla sembrare una tossica qualsiasi, di cui nessuno si sarebbe preoccupato più di tanto. L'uomo in nero guardò l'orologio. Dovevano davvero sbrigarsi. Di solito avevano un'altra metodologia per sbarazzarsi delle prove, ma la struttura dove lavoravano era già stata trasferita per metà, insieme ad un paio di cavie che il capo aveva ritenuto più interessanti e meno problematiche per le sue esigenze di quel momento. 3-1-7 sarebbe stata l'ultima ad essere trasferita, evidentemente aveva scelto il giorno sbagliato per ribellarsi, con tutti i problemi che aveva dato durante quegli ultimi anni arrivati a questo punto dei giochi era più facile liberarsi definitivamente di lei. 3-1-7 socchiuse gli occhi senza vedere niente, solo ombre in uno sfondo semi-buio. Sussultò quando sentì un pizzicotto su un braccio e un ago freddo penetrarle la pelle…fece per gridare ma in realtà non uscì una sola nota dalla sua bocca. Ci riprovò… Poco più in là quella sera un agente in vacanza dal suo ‘straordinario’ lavoro si stava dirigendo al punto d'incontro per un appuntamento galante con una donna che aveva conosciuto un mese prima durante una missione sotto copertura. Era contento, aveva trovato questa persona brillante e la sera si prospettava tra le più belle passate negli ultimi tempi. Tempi in cui il suo lavoro era diventato un appuntamento fisso. Non che gli dispiacesse, sia ben chiaro, amava il suo lavoro. Però, beh si sa, nella vita c'è bisogno anche di staccare la testa e trovare del tempo per se stessi. Affrettò il passo, era in anticipo come sempre e voleva rimanerlo, girò l'angolo e… «AAAAAAAANGH!» un urlo strozzato lo raggiunse dal vicolo all'incrocio davanti a sé. Lasciò cadere a terra la piccola scatola di cioccolatini che aveva preso per l'occasione e attraversò l'incrocio non curante dell’ ALT! lampeggiante in rosso e facendo inchiodare alcune macchine. Imbucò il vicolo e vide due uomini che gli davano le spalle, uno in piedi stava prendendo a calci un fagotto blu, che poteva essere un bimbo o una ragazza date le piccole dimensioni, mentre l'altro era chinato ad osservare la scena. L'agente non ci pensò due volte corse verso di loro e afferrò per le spalle l'uomo in piedi che cercò di liberarsi dalla sua presa ma lui lo colpì forte con un pugno prendendolo in pieno volto, scaraventandolo a terra e lasciandolo rintontito carponi sull'asfalto. Guardò il fagotto blu, prendendo atto che fosse una ragazza con un camice spiegazzato, sporco di sangue, del sudiciume del marciapiede e strappato in più punti. L'altro uomo si era scansato, facendosi da parte impaurito e schiacciando qualcosa di vetro con un piede. L'agente si avvicinò alla ragazza cercando di capire se c'era qualcosa che avrebbe potuto fare per lei. 3-1-7 con l'aria confusa, gli occhi velati che fissavano indistintamente un punto sopra di lei, allungò una mano e afferrò la giacca dell'agente cercando di mettere a fuoco la scena, e di combattere spasmodicamente contro il cocktail che le era stato appena iniettato. L'agente si voltò verso l'altro uomo con il camice a cui semplicemente rivolse uno sguardo rigido che gli fece alzare le mani in gesto di arresa: «La prego sono disarmato!» Anche l'Agente lo era ma non lo avrebbe rivelato, si limitò a guardarsi attorno e notò delle fialette rotte sul marciapiede e una siringa usata, si portò istintivamente una mano alla cintura spostando lo sguardo arrabbiato verso l'uomo con il camice. «Non muovere un muscolo! Dimmi che cosa le hai iniettato.» gli ordinò l'Agente in borghese, o quasi a questo punto della vicenda. Sollevò la testa alla ragazza delicatamente, stringendo labbra e denti in un gesto nervoso e aggrottando le sopracciglia preoccupato. Aspettava una risposta dall'uomo con il camice e invece sentì l'uomo dietro di se muoversi e un rumore metallico lo avvertì che aveva tolto la sicura all'arma. Arma a cui l'Agente non aveva minimamente pensato, e per la quale mentalmente si maledì. Alzò gli occhi al cielo e insieme, lentamente lasciando la ragazza, anche le mani disarmate. Vide il medico correre via, scattò verso di lui velocemente per fermarlo ma l'uomo in nero ancora intontito dal pugno preso poco prima sparò senza prendere la mira. Il rumore dello sparo fece modificare la dinamica dell'azione all'agente che frenando lo scatto si buttò a coprire la ragazza con il proprio corpo per proteggerla. Sentì le portiere chiudersi e il furgone partire con una sgommata. Sbuffò, le vacanze lo avevano davvero così rallentato? In realtà era accorso nel vicolo pensando ad una delle tante aggressioni a cui le grandi città come Los Angeles erano abituate, ma si era ritrovato in una situazione decisamente diversa, ed era stato fortunato che il colpo di pistola non fosse rivolto verso di lui. Allentò la presa sulla ragazza sorreggendole la testa e scansandola dal proprio petto, la guardò con i suoi occhi verdi e le sorrise dolcemente, la lasciò appoggiata al proprio braccio, in modo che non tornasse a toccare il marciapiede e goffamente, data la posizione, si tolse la giacca per mettergliela addosso e coprirla, visto che il camice che indossava era in uno stato a dir poco pietoso.
«Sono l'Agente Phil Coulson, lavoro per la Strategic, Homeland, Intervention, Enforcement & Logistic Division. Sei al sicuro adesso.»
Lo disse con una calma tale che solo un'Agente dello S.H.I.E.L.D. era addestrato a mantenere. «3-1-7» rispose con un sussurro la ragazza. «Cosa significa?» Le domandò Coulson passando due dita sulla macchia che il marciapiede le aveva lasciato sul volto. Alcune lacrime scesero dalle guance di lei, lo guardò negli occhi per alcuni istanti e perse nuovamente i sensi. L'inoltro della richiesta di - EMERGENZA - alla base S.H.I.E.L.D. più vicina era già partito dal telefono dell'Agente dal momento in cui aveva notato la siringa in terra con le tre fiale rotte accanto. I telefoni in dotazione agli Agenti, che Coulson portava sempre attaccato alla cintura, erano muniti di tasti veloci di emergenza che spesso nelle situazioni critiche potevano rivelarsi dei veri salvavita. Infatti già si sentiva il rumore di un Quinjet in avvicinamento.
Today was just not your day, not your day at all. Despite your having been there for nearly three hours, Avengers Tower was a complete mess.
The banner you had so painstakingly painted the night before? Ripped slightly and hanging from only one part of the ceiling; the other part of the ceiling had nothing but a huge dent from Thor’s hammer. Apparently Thor hadn’t stopped there with his decorating, either.
Natasha and Tony? Nowhere to be seen. But there was a large amount of alcohol missing, and they’d been talking about a drinking contest for weeks. You’d seen them briefly earlier, Tony practically asleep and Natasha complaining of a headache.
The cake? Currently nothing but a smeared blast across the remains of one wall. The rest of the kitchen area had all the other telltale signs of a Hulk attack.
Clint? Still unconscious. One of his explosive arrows could be found near where Bruce had been carefully icing said cake that morning. The rest of his arrows were littered across the cabinets, walls, ceiling, and counters.
And poor Steve? He was still trying to understand the situation.
All you had wanted was a surprise party set up. That wasn’t such a big request, was it? They all liked Phil. You’d thought they would want to help celebrate his getting out of the hospital. Instead, all that was left was wreckage and some unsalvageable dessert.
The aggravation wasn’t even worth it. When Phil arrived when your note had directed him to, all he did was take one look around at the carnage and shake his head.
You opened your mouth to explain, but Phil held up a hand.
It’s a question that many people have been asking themselves lately. Am I special? Does the world revolve around me? If you’re like me, then you’re thinking the answer is no. Maybe a few tiktok “put a finger down: main character edition” videos have you feeling like you’re not. Or you’ve realized your best friend is really the one with the spotlight. Some people just don’t fit the description of what we call being the main character.
Well first, we can argue that we’re each the main character in our own story. And that’s perfectly true. Every person is living, growing, and experiencing life in a way that no one else is. Everyone has their own story to tell, starring themselves.
But an equally valid way of thinking of it, is this:
Maybe you just aren’t the main character.
And really, that’s fine. Because there’s so many equally important characters in a story, who can bring even more to the table than the main character. AND, main character does NOT equal favorite character. In fact, of all the shows, movies, and books you fan over, in how many of those stories is the main character your favorite? I’m guessing not many. In many cases, the front-and-center character is not the one everyone is in love with. Elena Gilbert from TVD is hardly an audience favorite compared to the others. How many people watching Avatar say Aang is their favorite? Even Harry Potter is overlooked in favor of his friends.
The point is, the fan-favorite character is usually NOT the main character, for whatever reason. So who is?
Most of our favorites are actually secondary characters, who are not in the titular role but offer even more to the story by way of intelligence, humor, wit, friendship, interesting story-lines, relatability, etc…
Ok, still not sure? Let’s look at some non main characters who have become highly integral parts to the story, maybe even moreso than the main characters themselves simply by possessing the traits I’ve mentioned:
so much more but I’m really tired so that’s all I will type out right now. But do you think any less of these characters because they’re not the “main character?” Does it make them any less significant? Don’t think so.
Just because you don’t relate to the Harry Potters or the Bella Swans, doesn’t mean your story is any less important.
The important part is that you’re the character you would want to see yourself as. Be that person.
And if anyone with main character syndrome picks on you, kindly remind them that Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way was also a main character :)
Jason knows it’s naive, but it was all too easy. He wants revenge against Bruce, against the Joker…. But the Joker doesn’t even exist here. He’s as far from that monster as he’ll ever be able to be.
And there’s no one here that knows him. He has a chance to get away from Talia and the League.
He knows Talia is keeping him away because Ra’s will kill him if given the opportunity.
But here?
Here, he’s free from Batman, from the League, from anyone who wants to try and control him.
A bullet ricochets off the building next to him.
Well.. free as soon as he gets these German octo-idiots off his tail.
They’re morons. But by god, they’re well-connected morons. Somehow they’ve managed to chase him across three borders, from bum-fuck-nowheresville, Russia to mediocre-as-fuck City, Turkey.
You’d think they’d be less attached to him after spending barely a week with him before he burned down their base and killed all their men.
And right after he killed his first German asshole too.
Egon and HYDRA are two different types of scumbags. But they’re still scumbags.
Jason hops another fence, scrambling to the top of the dumpster and then up the first level of the fire escape.
He pauses as he hears shouts around the corner. Well, it’s as a good a time as any.
They corral themselves into the alley way, fully dressed in their tactical gear, blaring red Nazi-armbands and all.
The first guy is the biggest, Jason takes him down fast, the second… he gets a little sloppy but honestly, he doesn’t care when the spare asshole impales himself on Jason’s knife. Gonna be a bitch to clean though.
The third guy takes a bit more of a tussle and right when Jason gets in his face to start asking questions, the jerk smiles.
“Hydra will get what it wants from you child. Cut off one head, and three shall take its place.” There’s a suspicious crack before the man’s mouth fills with foam as his eyes roll back.
Jason drops the body in disgust. A waste of information. He glances at the first guy, it’ll be a pain to lug to an abandoned floor but… probably worth it to find out why they’re chasing him.
Jason walks over and yanks open the guy’s mouth. Now where….? Ah ha!
It takes a bit of prying with his blade but moments later, Jason holds a bloody cyanide capsule in his fingers.
It crushes uselessly beneath his feet.
After getting leverage under the guy, Jason is able to haul the limp man up the two flights of stairs to his current empty safe-house.
Okay, yes, safe-house is a bit of a stretch. As it is neither safe anymore, nor been a livable house in a long time.
It’s because of this that Jason doesn’t even bother putting a tarp down before tying the man to a chair.
“Wakey wakey, assface.” Jason says.
There’s no response except a mild groan.
Then screaming as Jason plunges his still-dirty knife into the man’s collarbone.
He smirks. Time to ask Nazi Number 1 some questions.
———
When Coulson gets the assignment to Northern Turkey for the bodies of two dead Hydra agents, he’s almost expecting it to be boring.
Of course, the moment he lands he finds out they’ve found the third body. Any hope for boring goes out the window as he looks at the multilated corpse of what used to be a Hydra agent.
This was torture. Expert torture. Combined with the skill of the two dead in the alley below and the chase his ground agents have been able to track.. they’re dealing with a professional here. And not a new one.
But somehow, they have nothing on the assassin. That makes him dangerous.
Coulson steps into the hallway of the abandoned building to make a call.
One ring.. two… three..-
“Hello?”
“Hawkeye.”
The tone changes over the phone, “Coulson? What’s wrong?”
“Care for a search and remove mission in Akyaka, Turkey? We have an unknown assassin that’s popped up with three dead Hydra already under their belt. Could use a good pair of eyes.”
Coulson could hear the smile on the other end of the line, “You know I’m always up for some sightseeing.”
“I’ll send for transport.”
The call ends and Phil glances back through the open doorway at the body. Whoever did this… they were looking for something. He thinks they must have found it.
Clint shows up on a private red-eye the next afternoon; and with barely a greeting, the two launch into the search.
Between the two of them and the bevy of SHIELD agents at their beck and call, it should be a straightforward mission.
It’s not.
The killer is always a town or a city ahead of them. There’s no aliases to track or face to ID, with the red sweatshirt he wears constantly, hood up, head down. They barely have a height or body type estimate by the time two weeks roll past.
Seven more Hydra agents show up dead in that time, and it’s becoming the most dependable way to track him.
When they realize the man is making towards the airport in Erzurum, Clint calls in Natasha.
It takes them another week stillto find where the man will be staying for a few days before moving on.
When they find it though, Coulson has the place locked down within the hour, entirely discreet.
He and Natasha are acting as the front, hopefully this will go diplomatically. If not.. that’s where Clint comes in.
The man walks through the darkness of the apartment, heavily dropping groceries on the counter.
Just as they’re about to wonder if perhaps they were wrong about this person or their skills, the man pulls two guns directly at them.
“Who the hell are you and what the hell do want from me?”
“Mr. Smith. I’m glad to see you are the person we’ve been looking for. However, it would be best if would lower your weapon and cooperate with your arrest.”
“Phil, wait-“
“I’m not cooperating with shit, baldy.” The man cocked his guns, completely ignoring Natasha.
She quickly flicked on a light switch, illuminating the shadows of the man’s face.
But that was the problem. It wasn’t a man, it was a kid.
“How old are you?”
The kid hesitated, already a bad sign, then he snarled, “What does it matter, lady?”
“It matters because this changes things. Coulson,” She looked at him, “He’s just like us. We can’t just let him be.”
Coulson’s face was serious and understanding, “Listen, kid, we can help you. Now that we know-“
“Now that you know? Know what? You know nothing,”
“We can help you, please just come with us, SHIELD can-“
There’s a spark of recognition, “You’re Shield.” He raised his guns back up from where they’d gone slack, “Which makes you Black Widow. Greatest living product of the Red Room.”
A flash of surprise passed through her eyes, “How do you-“
“I read a lot about you. And let me tell you this. Both of you. I just got free from one shadow organization, I’m not about to join another. I’ve been both soldier and weapon, now I’m neither. I plan to stay that way. Even if it means killing you and every black ops agent in this building.” The kid growled, finger pulling on the trigger.
An arrow pierces through his forearm, forcing him to roll backwards into his kitchen. Natasha leapt towards him, halting when he raised a gun back at her face.
He wavered between pointing it at Coulson or Natasha, breathing heavily through the pain.
“Tell your buddies thanks but I’m good. Freedom suits me just fine.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he leapt for the window over the sink, crashing through the glass and into the air outside.
Natasha didn’t even have time to stop him before the kid was gone. No sign of him on the street below save for a blood trail that tapered off quickly.
——
Hours later, Natasha’s eyes flicker open from sleep in the darkness of their safe house.
Why was she awake?
A small creak sounded from outside the room.
An intruder.
Slowly, Natasha wrapped her hands around her gun and slunk out the door, tapping Clint on her way.
There was a groan and slight clatter in the kitchen.
She motioned for Clint to go around.
As she came to the kitchen, she flipped on a light, immediately aiming her gun at the figure.
It was- the kid?
“Hey,” he groaned, leaning on the counter, blood on his face and clothes, “you said SHIELD could protect me?”
Natasha nodded, not lowering her gun.
He pulled his hand away to show the blood oozing from a large wound on his stomach and looked up at her pleadingly, “That offer still available?”
Jason slowly crawled his way back to consciousness, fully aware of the screeching pain in his side and arm.
He wanted to grimace but held back when he registered the presence of other people in the room. Three.
Two were at least 10 feet away, the other was…
Jason grabbed the wrist of the person leaning over him, twisting it backwards as he sprung awake and upwards.
A syringe dropped to the floor next to them as Jason slammed him to the ground.
“Clint, wait!” The man below him stopped struggling. Jason looked down at him.
“Clint Barton. Hawkeye.” The night came flooding back to him, “What was in the syringe?”
The man grunted uncomfortably from the awkward position, “Morphine, you brat.”
Jason scowled and let him up with a tight smile and a wince, “I don’t do morphine. Or any pain meds.”
“Yeah, well you can just suffer through that torn stitch all on your own then.”
“Considering you’re probably the one that shot me with an arrow, I think I’ll manage.”
Jason snapped back and then paused to take stock of the room he was in.
Small. Living room. Old couch, half-filled bookcase by the front door.
One window with a fire escape. Adjacent bedroom and 2 kitchen entrances. Likely with windows.
The other two people - Black Widow and ‘Coulson’- stood by the bookshelf, both armed.
“I know I should regret shooting a kid, but considering your attitude, I’m finding it a little hard.”
Jason huffed a laugh then winced and clutched his side when pain flashed through it.
“Ha. Karma.” Hawkeye chuckled as he rubbed his wrist.
“Barton. Behave.” ‘Coulson’ stepped forward, shooting a sharp look at the other and holding up a placating hand, “You’re going to want to be careful about that side, reopening a would like that so fast would not be good.”
“I’ll be fine.” Jason snapped, then quieter, “Been through worse.”
“Be that as it may…” the balding man came closer, stopping when Jason glared at him, “I think we got off on the wrong foot, my name is Agent Coulson, this is Agents Barton and Romanoff. Or as you seem to know them, Black Widow and Hawkeye.”
“Don’t sweat the first impressions. Breaking in and threatening me is generally how I meet new people, so it’s not like you’re anything special. How long was I out?”
“Just under three hours. We expected you to be out for a while longer. Care to explain why it is you’re awake? Or how you came to such a state in the last 6 hours since we saw you?”
“Not particularly and the usual assholes being sent on missions way out of their league. One got a lucky hit in, that’s it.”
The man in front of him hummed and raised an eyebrow, “So you came to us for protection from ‘the usual assholes’ then?”
Jason tensed.
“Or protection from the ones sending them?”
Jason gritted his teeth, “The ones sending them. Listen, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, but things have… changed for me recently and I’ve found myself in dire need of new allies.”
Widow stepped forward, “So enlighten us. Who are you running from?”
“I can’t tell you and I’m not running. I just… I was given a chance to get out, more than that, get away. I want to take it. I can’t do that with Nazi assholes and Ninjas bearing down on me like I’ll change my fucking mind.”
“Hydra?”
Jason sighed and rolled his shoulder to test it, “Yep.”
“That’s a powerful enemy to make, kid,” Hawkeye piped in.
Jason smiled cynically, “Yeah, well, I’m a worse one. If they want to keep sending their guys at me to get put down I have no problem with it. And I’m not a kid.”
“Ehhhh, looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, I’m gonna say you’re what, 13?”
Jason growled at the archer, “Old enough and skilled enough to skin you with your own bowstring, asshole.”
Widow stepped between them, “You said Ninjas as well?”
Jason clamped his mouth shut.
“If you want SHIELD’s protection, we need to know who we’re protecting you from.”
Jason clenched his jaw, “I can’t tell you their name. And nothing about them can show up anywhere. If it does, they’ll know who it came from and where I am. Then you’d be useless.”
“How about you then?” Widow said.
Jason paused, stunned, “What?”
“Tell us about you. We don’t even know your real name, because ‘John Smith’ is definitely not it.”
“John works. ‘J’ works better.”
“Alright, Jay. Age?”
Jason looked away, “Somewhere over 14.”
“The hell does that mean? ‘Over 14’ Like months or years over?” Hawkeye said with a bewildered face.
“If I knew I would tell you. But unfortunately, I don’t, so the best I can tell you is somewhere over 14.” Jason snarled.
Coulson and Widow gave each other a look, one that he was sure Hawkeye picked up on without even looking.
“Alright, easy goes it kid. Birthday?”
“August.”
“Wow, that is frustratingly vague. Any chance you’ve got a year to tack on that?”
Jason thought for a second, “Nope.”
Black Widow took over again, “Skill set?”
“Most of it.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Most of what?”
Jason gave a mean smirk, “Everything.”
Romanoff glanced back at her partners, Barton just shrugged and Coulson answered, “We’ll have to test you on that for more specifics.”
“Go ahead. As long as you know it’s the only kind of test I’m gonna let you do.”
Even though his face stayed empty, something flickered in Coulson’s eyes, “Of course. Any parents we should be thinking of?”
Green tinted anger coursed through Jason’s body so fast the chair he was gripping creaked under his hand, “None that are worth it.” He growled through clenched teeth.
“Anything else we should be aware of? Favorite color? Hobbies? Hopes and dreams?” Hawkeye quipped lazily.
Jason ground his teeth together, “Currently? Stabbing you through the neck with same arrow you shot me with sounds nice. But seeing as I snapped it in half and dumped it in an alley, I’ll settle for breaking your kneecaps.”
Barton looked unfazed, “Is that categorized under hobbies? Or hopes and dreams?”
Jason stood with a snarl, hand twitching for a weapon, “I’m always up for finding out.”
“Ha! Try knitting next time,” Clint laughed and looked past him, “Geez, ‘Tasha, he’s worse than you were.”
Natasha’s lips settled into a grim line as Coulson pulled Barton back with a hand on his shoulder.
“Kid-, Jay, we need your cooperation on this. We can’t stop whoever’s coming after you if you don’t work with us-“
Jason scoffed, “I don’t expect you to be able to stop them. You couldn’t if you tried. I’m just hoping you’ll delay them enough for me to run like a bat outta hell.” He said with a smirk at the inside joke.
Hawkeye rolled his eyes, “And isn’t that a comforting thought.”
Just as Jason turned to snap at the man again, something beeped on Coulson’s watch. He held it and read the small screen.
“Our ride’s here. We need to blend in to get out,” Coulson looked at Jason, “Any chance you know Turkish?”
“I dabble.” He answered in Turkish, then changed, “My Russian or Romanian is better.”
Everyone in the room raised an eyebrow, even Widow’s twitched.
Coulson nodded, “Hopefully we won’t need to talk, but just in case.” He turned to Barton to, “Barton, get him some new clothes without blood on them. We leave in 20. Can we trust you not to kill us and run or do we need to remove more of your weapons?”
Jason scowled- not pouted- “You got my favorites so we’re good provided Katniss over there doesn’t get on my nerves enough to put him down.”
“I resent that remark!” Hawkeye said as he dug through the bag they’d confiscated from Jason’s safe house. He chucked the new clothes at Jason with a smile.
Jason caught them with a grunt and winced as sharp pain struck up his leg and his side. He stomped past them to the bathroom as best he could without a limp. Pausing briefly to grab the first aid kit from the wall.
“For the popped stitch.” He said blandly and then shut and locked the door behind him.
Hawkeye sighed, shoulders dropping, “Damn, that kid is messed up.”
“I hope the people chasing him dare to try and come for him.” Natasha said darkly, face cold and hard as stone.
“If they do, I hope I get to put an arrow through a least a few of them.”
Coulson cleared his throat, “Let’s focus on getting him out of here before we start planning the next step.”
“Come on, Phil, you can’t tell me that just guessing at what that kid’s gone through doesn’t make you want to punch someone.”
“I never said anything about that, just that it’s not our first priority.”
![[EDITH] even depressed i’m the hero](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8b47516020dd2011c4d1253314d2e619/e562f8dbe572752b-b8/s30x30u_c1/552e808c318fe518c29624a7cd8380c89fa4183f.jpg){kind=small}
![‘The Avengers’ Wallpaper[Clint/Coulson] eight different sizes at my livejournal](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mde0xt9QtS1qf55abo1_500.jpg "‘The Avengers’ Wallpaper[Clint/Coulson] eight different sizes at my livejournal")
