[ indie || marvel || selective ]
name: clint barton.
alias: hawkeye.
specialties: not many
[ exists in mcu ]
[ read notes for expansion ]
[ tracks #agentbartxn ]
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 | agentbartxn asked ; is that blood? |
Prompt: Send “Is that blood?!” for my characters reaction.
[ There’s a look in those baby blues of his, a blankness, almost, as he ignores the drying flecks on his uniform and re-sheaths a knife in its proper holster. ]
- ——yes.
[ And that’s all he says on the matter, instead, walking past Clint and continuing his hike through dense, swampy forest. ]
[ Of course it was. Why did he even
ask. He fiddles with his arrow near the
tip, twisting it between his forefingers.
Clint knows that look. Natasha has it
sometimes. He knows better than to ask. ]
At least it’s not yours. Are we there yet? I’m bored.
”Fuck.”
The word is a hissed exhalation between chapped lips as she ducks under what used to be an awning to a shop’s facade. There should be a level of just how many ways a gal could fuck up before she got herself killed. Carol’d probably top the list. At least she wasn’t running from zombies—this was the last place that she would go to lose them. But to lose people? This was perfect.
The blonde waited a few beats before moving. One….. Two…. And silence was her answer. Pushing herself back to her feet, she brushed her pants off watching the dust float into the wind. Perfect. She was dirty and annoyed. A perfect, wonderful combination.
Her steps were careful as she picked her way through what used to be civilization. She was passing a gas station when she realized she wasn’t alone. A silhouette caught her eye and she stopped, drawing her gun faster and training it on the shape with a steady gaze.
“Best say something or I’ll blow your head off just to be sure.”
Everyone knew zombies couldn’t talk.
} Of course those limping corpses couldn’t talk. Clint almost sighed in relief, he almost lowered his weapon and greeted her, he almost considered asking for help. The sight of another human being in, what, a month? A whole month with nothing but static on the radio he couldn’t shut off and siphoning gasoline from abandoned cars, he was jumping for joy on the inside. Briefly. Then he heard Tasha’s voice echo in his head.
The only thing more dangerous then them is people, Clint, watch yourself.
This was far from the first person he encountered, but it was the first with a gun. Everyone else had crowbars or knives. Or, in one case, a shovel. but that was beside the point. He wondered if there was an actual bullet in the chamber.
Clint didn’t lower his weapon, but he did greet her.
“Ain’t dead yet,” he said into the fletching, “and I don’t plan to be. Do you?” It was almost a challenge. He was daring her to try it, try anything, because it took one wrong move to put an arrow through the back of her skull.
This would be far from the first person he killed.
But it would be the first with a gun.
} The sun’s just starting to set as Clint rolls up on a town. It’s deserted- most towns are nowadays. As far as he can see, there’s no walkers around. That was always a plus. He parks his car just outside of the main stretch of road. Just in case. One can never be to sure recently, and Clint was only alive now because of his distrusting nature and the fact that he had somewhere to be. There was no time to be stalled. He had to find her.
There’s a gas station and a supermarket on main street- a drugstore and a liquor store, a few restaurants that were long since raided, emptied and destroyed. He noticed a few buildings were fire damaged. He kept his bow nocked as he started searching the gas station. A couple stale candy bars, which he took, and a broken lightbulb. The place was a mess- shelves toppled, the cash register was put through the cooler doors. There wasn’t much he expected, though. A noise drew him outside. Rustling? Maybe running.
He lifted his bow as he walked out the door, drawing it half way in anticipation of something bad. He didn’t call out, wary of the unfriendly sort.