Undisclosed Penthouse in lower Manhattan
Earlier Today
Wanda Maximoff-Barton softly closed the door to the makeshift nursery as not to disturb the twins napping inside. She had relocated to the private penthouse some two months before, a seeming contingency plan set up by Clint in the case of his
no, she wouldnt fathom the thought. Set up in case he became indisposed, she told her self. In the event the mansion was rendered uninhabitable, as it so frequently had been in the past. Yes, it was just Clint thinking smart. Planning ahead.
And yet, two months, and not a word, a letter, any indication of his whereabouts or well being. Indeed, everything left behind for her and the twins, everything that had happened in the war and the aftermath, it all pointed to on inescapable truth that everyone else had finally, if not begrudgingly, come to accept. Everyone but her. Still, it was there, right in front of her, waiting to latch onto her soul, her understanding. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, was dead, a victim of that damnable Civil War. The papers had reported it, the news channels had packaged it into neat little news reports with their own theme songs and graphics, cable channels had spit out an endless supply of documentaries, prime time specials, and a few made for TV movies, and several motion picture studios were fighting over the rights for a silver screen flick. This was all possible, it seemed, due to Clints true identity being a closely guarded secret and the public nature of the Avengers. No copyrights to overcome, so they said, though in the wake of it all and the fall of the mighty, no doubt there were a few involved in the superhero community who were benefiting financially. It sickened her, which was another reason she had basically become a recluse, a hermit, living her days above the people who had built them up and brought them up. In the first few weeks, she had missed the Avengers, the mansion, her friends, and wanted to try everything in her power to reconcile. But seclusion had a way of making one cynical, hateful, as she stewed in all that had happened, until she came to hate the world at large, content to live as she had early in life, outcast as a freak in the confines of Wundergore Mountain, leaning only in the comforting arms of her brother.
Much as it was now, only there were two more little lives to keep her company in Pietros absence. Right now, he was somewhere in Europe, shopping for fresh fruits and vegetables in a small town square market, real food from good people who worked hard for a living and were quite happy about it. How she longed for the old ways, the old country. She often wondered what kept her here now.
Clint
She was startled from her thought by a knock at the door. Pietro back so soon, even for his amazing speed? No, he had never knocked. He had no need to. And no one else had bothered to look her up, to come visit her whole time here.
Cautiously, she made her way to the door, peering through the peephole. On the other side, glancing nervously up and down the hall, was Kate Bishop.
Wandas heart skipped a beat, both in excitement and concern. It was some semblance of family, a niece her husband had never known until recently, a young girl with so much heart and promise that the room just lit up in her presence. Still, just the fact that she was here, and the way she glanced around, carried herself, told Wanda all was not well with the young girl.
She hurriedly opened the door and greeted the teen in a warm embrace.
Kate, sweetheart. Its o good to see you. How did you find me? What brings you here?
Kate returned the embrace, and then pulled away, Wanda getting the first real feel of the worry and concern in her eyes.
I have some news. We need to talk.
-
The Bishop Residence
One week ago
Adopted! Young lady, you have gone off the deep end. This is ludicrous.
Daddy
I cant tell you how weird it feels saying that now
I have the notes, the photos. Ive found everything you hid from me in your safe. I met my real mother, my real uncle. I know the whole story. You dont need to protect me anymore. Im almost seventeen years old. I just wish you could be honest with me.
Weve never been anything but honest with you, young lady. You are not making any sense. Your real mother is right here in this room with me, your real father.
Why are you treating me like a kid. My real father is Hawkeye, the Avengers, brother. I know he died a long time ago, that my mom wasnt able to take care of me, so she sent me to her cousin. You.
What! Hawkeye! The Avengers! You would believe something those trouble making capes would spew out. You were eating out of the hand of a former number one most wanted man in America, a man who was primed to lead a rebellion against his own country. Hes a criminal. He was preying off you. Youre young, confused. He was feeding off that to recruit soldiers. And you bought it. This superhero thing has been nothing but trouble, and now I find out youve been running around behind our backs for the past six months, still hanging out with these, these vigilantes. And now this trash coming from your mouth. What else are you doing? Taking drugs. It wouldnt surprise me young lady, hearing all this.
I cant believe you!
I cant believe you! I never, ever thought I could be ashamed of my children. Not until this moment, and its a sickening feeling. Get your coat young lady.
Why?
We are going to the hospital. You want to spew this gibberish; we are proving we are your parents. We are getting you tested for drugs. We are then getting a restraining order put against those Avengers, those who didnt do us a favor by offing each other, and then you are confined to your room until you apologize to your mother an myself for all the grief you have caused us, and this wild side is gone once and for all. And your friend, Hawkeye, he should be thanking his lucky stars hes no longer among us, because I would make his life a legal hell before he pent the rest of his days rotting in a prison somewhere. If you ask me, he got off way too easy.
-
Des Moines, Iowa
One Month Ago
Why cant anything ever be easy?
Clint Barton dodged a barrage of bullets, diving behind a pile of crushed cars in the old junkyard near the fair grounds. Another trap. This had been another trap. He had been on the run, all over Iowa the past month, retracing steps of his life, forced to play a sick game he wanted no part of, a pawn of a very twisted dimensional hopping demon with a bone to pick. While he hadnt dealt directly with Mephisto since that first night, he had seen him observing from a distance but wouldnt get his hands dirty, he had lost count of the number of sparring matches hed been in with The Swordsman and his brother Barney, resurrect from Mephistos realm by the dark lord, playing on Clints emotions. It had taken him a fight or two before he realized that the entity living in the likeness of his brother was a twisted version of the darkest part of the eldest Bartons soul. Big words and a long explanation that only Reed Richards or Bruce Banner would understand. To Hawkeye, it met one thing; he could wail on him and not feel bad. The Swordsman though, kicking his sorry ass felt like old times.
Right now though, it was neither risen demon spawn aiming for his head. No, this loser here was, well, a loser with a very big head for Clint to aim at. Problem was, he had no arrows. And the bow he had swiped was busted.
Egghead. Another corpse claimed and rose by Mephisto. He had been one of Hank Pyms baddies, primarily, but him and Clint had a strong connection. Egghead was involved in Barneys death. Clint killed Egghead.
It was that night, about 2 weeks ago. Clint had barely gotten away from the Swordsman, empowered with some kind of other worldly sword. Holding a grudge against his alter ego wasnt going to get him far anymore, and the trashcan lids werent cutting it. It was in the dead of night, after having snuck into a sporting goods/hunting store and scavenging for a decent bow and as many arrows as he could carry (God, he hated stealing again. If he ever got through this, ever made it home, he would send the money he owed the store) that he felt another presence. Not of this world, which was becoming the norm, but not threatening either. Something that told him he was doing the right thing by re-embracing the bow, but that something was missing. It wasnt a feeling so much as an actual voice, somewhere, telling him this, leading him to Des Moines.
At the time it had felt so right. So, after zig-zagging across the state for a few weeks to throw off his trail
it had finally worked a day or two before, he made his way to Des Moines, to the old fair grounds where another very important chapter of his life had taken place, only to be met by the Conehead wanna-be. He had been on his bike, taking a detour through the junkyard to avoid open roads, when a bullet had blown out his front tire. Clint had gone flying over the handle bars, landing in his back and cracking the bow. Sure, the arrows stayed safe and sound in the quiver, which was the irony of his life. Egghead had oddly enough forgone the senseless jabber of all the others, which Clint actually welcomed. They were familiar enough. From Eggheads reaction, it was obvious he remembered their history all to well.
Which brought Clint back to here, now, ducking behind a stack of crushed jalopies. Unarmed, up against a gun toting demon spawn with a pointy-head and bad suit. The gunfire was getting closer. Clint scrambled around to the back of the pile, garbbing a discarded tire iron laying on the ground. Good god, he didnt even have a knife to bring to this gun fight.
He laid in wait, trying to pick up some element of surprise. The gun fire got closer. He gripped the tire iron and
*CHUK* *CHUK* *CHUK*
The gunfire ceased at the sound of something tearing into flesh. A moment later, he saw Egghead fall forward, flat on his face, three arrows protruding from his back. He was alive, as of yet, and Clint had an idea that it would take more than that to keep this overpowered gangster down, but for a moment, he was spared.
And then his savior rounded the corner. Clint wanted to be surprised, should have been surprised, but with the way the past year had gone, Deadpool swearing off the jokes and becoming joining the cloth would have been almost acceptable.
Boy, you really are off the wagon.
Clint stood up to face the new arrival.
Actually, it seems Ive started a new trend. Cheating death is the new big thing, Trickshot.
