The initial search for the missing turned up records and files on over eighty tests subjects. Most of those listed had been greyed out denoting their status as "No Longer Viable" which was a clinical definition for deceased. There were only ten names that still flashed green and all listed as being in the 'holding pens on Section C-5'. Phil left McKinney and Rolling in charge topside while he took three men from their backup and headed to C-5.
That part of the facility was older than the rest, slightly unkempt, and wholly terrifying. When they forced their way past the security doors they were met with an overwhelming smell of filth and decomposition. One of the agents retreated out of the doors to retch but fell back into step behind the rest moments later. He wouldn't have been missed since it didn't seem like any of the others aside from Coulson had moved, too horror-struck to continue forward.
The walls were lined with what looked like over-sized kennels, half a dozen cages and all filled with what could only be the ten viable subjects. The creatures curled up, moaning or just not moving at all, little resembled the healthy people that had smiled up from the pictures Phil had thumbed through when he'd been assigned this mission, but underneath the filth of unwashed skin, dirt, and in some cases, bloated features and blackened skin, he could pick out individuals whose names he memorized. Six of the ten were dead and of those alive only three were people SHIELD knew about.
Phil ordered sent out a curt order for a medical team to get down here fucking yesterday and strode towards the closest cage, gun drawn and face grim, with the intent to break the damn lock off.
1/2| marry me. (also, trigger!warning for extensive captivity descriptn., human testing, death) stillnotlegolasMay 27 2012, 05:37:50 UTC
There were times Clint regretted leaving the circus. And times he regretted leaving the orphanage. And times he regretted his parents getting in a fucking car wreck in the middle of the night on a rainy street. The orphanage was run like a prison, tight rations and women who were in it for the state money instead of the children, and the circus meant everything from Trick Shot to Swordsman to Barney and a fall from a tight rope that nearly left him crippled. But there were times he regretted his choice, nights when he didn't have any place warm to sleep, couldn't scrounge up food for lack of work for a drifter, or times he had to take missions he didn't want--employ his skills for people he hated just to get a paycheck and keep on living. But he'd never regretted leaving the circus more than when he'd been fucking nabbed out of a back alley in New York City by some thugs who looked like they bench-pressed railroad ties for fun and he'd ended up here in what was basically the world's sickest science experiment gone wrong.
Research and development. That's what the scientists who collected them raved about when they were first brought in--he was in the third batch, still early, still fresh, they were brought in four and five at a time--about how their volunteerism would help further the human race, help bring about the next stage in human evolution. He'd snidely pointed out that normally volunteers didn't have handcuffs and had spent two days getting knocked around and having their meager rations withheld for his trouble. That, he found, would be common.
And then the experiments had started. Hour after hour and day after day of needles and scalpels and sutures and modifications and tests. Any protest led to a refusal of food, or pain or something unpleasant so that by the end of the first month they were as docile as properly trained dogs, barely human any more, following the path from their cells to the labs without complaint. Every now and again--after he'd had a few solid meals, maybe, or after he'd been spared some of the rougher tests--he'd mouth off, remember a bit of himself and his stubbornness, but it was just as quickly stamped out--
So the experiments continued, and finally they learned what was happening to them. The introduction of animal DNA to the human genome, modification, radiation, adaptation, all of it in some bizarre scientific process that was 'revolutionary', 'outstanding' and 'alone in it's field'! Something that would change the course of humanity for generations to come. The only problem, of course, was the 90% mortality rate.
There had been ten of them though, out of the eighty or so he counted that came and went, that made it through their serum injection, through the radiation, through the modifications. And he'd gotten to know them, after hours of sitting in their respective cells with nothing to do except talk. There's Natalie, the one they turned into a cat, whose eyes glowed after they killed the lights each night. Aiden, who'd become half man and half dog, who was still alive--so he counted as a success--but who couldn't stand on legs that were more canine than human. Roger and Rufus--twins, and therefore of great interest, who now sported scales and forked tongues that made it nearly impossible to speak. Regina, who survived through her first day as part bear but had collapsed in the middle of the following night and hadn't gotten gotten back up again. Fiona, the tiny redhead with her new tail and darting fox-like eyes. Alexander and Alondra, another pair of twins who, like Regina, had survived a few days as abominations--part insect with fractured eyes and extra clicking arms, but had died soon after. Bodies too incompatible. And then there's Adrian and him. The Avians. A16 and A37 to the scientists that made them this way. Wings that spread nearly fifteen feet tip to tip when he's got them spread out are now a part of him, two extra limbs, as vital to his livelihood as his arms and his legs now. He is, he hears, one of the most successful permutations.
Which means he's the one on which they do most of their testing--
2/2 (but really, head those warnings) stillnotlegolasMay 27 2012, 05:38:30 UTC
By the time the SHIELD agent knocks down the door, there's only three of them left. Alexander and Alondra and Regina have been left to rot, and eventually Aiden couldn't stand anymore and followed their plan. He'd gone quietly in the night, and they knew only because he didn't respond anymore when they called his name. Roger's body rejected his mutation a day after Aiden went quiet, and Rufus had simply--given up after that. Adrian is the one that gets to him the most, because he's the only one Clint can actually see, and he dies not because his body has rejected the change--the four of them seem to have adapted and accepted and are holding stable--but because he dared to ask a guard for some water. The crack of the baton across his face still haunts Clint, and he knows the guard didn't mean to hit him that hard--they all heard the man getting reamed, but there lies Aiden, still looking surprised and with his wings wrapped tight around his small frame.
So like he said, it's just him, and Natalie, and Fiona by the time that cavalry makes it through the door, and he groans, shields his eyes from the light and shakes his head as the man approaches his cage.
"The girls--" He croaks, voice scratchy and tired from disuse--none of them really felt like talking after Aiden--nodding to the cages further down the row. "They need a medic first--check on them."
The agents are making a lot of noise, radio chatter and the hush of voices whispering their disgust or sputtering their surprise at the scene, the cages, the occupants -- all that noise and Phil still picks up the croaked request. It surprises him, makes him pause with his gun to the side. He leans towards the cage and squints into the gloom and picks up glazed but intelligent eyes staring at him from a wrap of feathers and grime.
He spares a glance to the cages on either side of the one he's in front of and notes that only one that holds a living being; he spots the other female to the right where two agents were wrestling with the padlocks that kept the prison secured.
"You could all use a medic," He replied but moved to the cage where a woman lay curled and shivering in the back, away from the door. "Ma'am? Ma'am, I'm going to get you out of this cage." He brandished his gun, pointing it at the ground but making sure that she could see it clearly. "The men upstairs weren't very cooperative and I don't think the keys to these locks are anywhere in here so I'm going to shoot the lock off."
The woman was watching him with wide, frightened eyes but she nodded and curled herself up, impossibly smaller, and wrapped her arms over her head. "It's okay to be frightened but I'm not going to hurt you," He reassured and pulled the trigger. He didn't hesitate in turning and shooting off the others closest to him, getting them all off and cages open in one fell swoop.
"I'm going to stand right out here and wait for the medics to come take a look at you, alright? They'll be here soon and they can check the both of you out."
He's so used to their captors that it surprises him right down to his core, so that he can almost feel the shock in his bones, when the man listens to him and moves past his cage to Fiona's, talking to her, telling her exactly what he's doing. It's that, really, that makes him believe they might actually get out of here and that it's not some strange twisted and horrid sort of dream. False hope is something they've had no shortage of, but it always seems to die in the face of another day.
There's a wince, at the sound of the gunshots, and he can't help throwing his wings up as a sort of shield, even though he knows the man isn't directing the shots at him. He lets out a sigh of relief as he hears the metal of the padlock hit the ground, and he's moving before he really thinks about it. His steps are weaker than he means them to be, but they're strong enough to get him to the cell door, which he pushes open, and then down to the cell the man seems to be guarding and slips inside, not sparing the agent a look, not yet at least, and gathers the trembling woman in his arms.
"Shhh, Fiona, it's me. It's Clint." His wings are mantled over her almost instinctively and he looks over his shoulder at the man. "Get the other girl, Natalie, help her here, please. Carry her if she needs it," They'd become his family, in their two month captivity, the nine of them here. And he'd really like to make sure the two he has left stay with him. He needs to make sure they're safe--
Phil doesn't move, as he promised, just watched the unsteady lumbering of Barton - Francis Clinton, alias of one Clint Barton, vagabond weapon for hire and petty criminal. But right now he was just a broken, mistreated man that needed help. - as the man levered himself up and out of his cage and stumbled his way into the other, wraps the woman up in his arms and his wings. It's disturbing, those alien features, but the scene is touching and makes something in Phil clench.
He was willing to do just that, to walk over to the other cage and carry 'Natalie' from there and into the cage with the other two but he didn't know her condition, if she'd even be able to make it. He was saved from having to voice that by a squawk surprise from several agents behind him and a darting figure that sped past him and all but dove into the cage; Natalie, apparently, was able and could make it just fine. Phil blinked and arched a brow but didn't, otherwise, show his own surprise.
"I'll make sure the medics know not to separate you three, then." Because Phil had a feeling that if anyone tried, tired, beaten, and as frail as these three looked, there would be hell to pay. He'd have to contact Roland and McKinney to convey the request to the extraction team and then to the recovery facility that these three would end up at. For now, however, he stood vigilant at the mouth of the cage and kept silent guard.
He doesn't really give a damn what the agents think about them and what they are, now that they're hybrids, not entirely human. He's run the gamut of responses, from the scientists and their awe and curiosity, to the disgust of the new test subjects dragged in, to the weary acceptance of the others sharing his captivity. They can be disgusted for all he cares, but as long as they're not going to shove them back into some government run prison or laboratory he doesn't give a damn. He does look up at the motion at the front of the cell, but it's just Natalie, and he reaches out to collect her close, her cat like body curling tight against his side.
"Frankly, sir," he replies softly, looking up over the two women held close to him, "if you try to separate us, you won't like the outcome."
"They won't try to separate you," He assured and conveyed that message (order) over the comms to the rest of the team. Phil wasn't going to ignore the inherent threat even if he was betting a stiff breeze could knock the lot of them over. "The medics will be here in two. They're going to want to come in there with you and check you over but they won't come in there without your permission so I'm asking you, all of you, now if you'd be more comfortable out in the open instead of sitting in an enclosed space?"
That takes a moment for him to process properly, everything does, his brain is sluggish and his body weak, but once he's got it he leans down and murmurs the question to the girls. They nod, and Fiona lets out a tiny whimper that makes him want to break something. He wishes, for a moment, that these men have left at least one of the guards alive, because he owes them a solid punch to the jaw.
The voice is still quiet, hoarse but it was easy to hear the plea. He nodded again and took a few steps backwards. Phil looked over his shoulder and addressed the milling agents, "Everyone outside, give them room. Corey, Daniels go meet up with the medics and give them instructions to come in low and make sure they understand they're not to charge in straight away. They need to telegraph their actions and ask permission constantly; Slow and steady."
The agents scrambled to obey and soon it was just a sentry at the door and Phil left in the room with the three injured huddled in the cage. He took another step back and secured his weapon, tucking his hands into his pocket afterward.
"Do you need help coming out or can you all manage?"
"We can manage," Clint defends, because even if they can't, he's not entirely sure he can handle leaning on someone else right now. He's had people controlling his life for the past three months, there are some things he needs to do on his own.
It takes them a while, he struggles to his feet and then helps Fiona to hers (Natalie had already scrambled to hers). His wings twitch absently against his back, because he wants to keep them mantled around the girls, but the muscles are exhausted, overused as they are from the tests, and he can do little than let them drag behind him, the tips crossed over each other and dragging along the grime of the floor.
He moves forward with the girls, slow, steady footsteps that carry them toward the exit and freedom. He winces with each step, limping, and they make progress though it is at a snails pace. As they reach the agent--the man who seems to be calling the shots here, he speaks, and this time his voice is weak for a completely different reason.
"The boy--the teenager--the other avian?" He's not going to look in Aiden's cell, he can't. "Can you bring his body out? Bury him? He's only--" he has to swallow, clear his throat, and Fiona has buried her head in his side. "--only been dead a couple days. It shouldn't be as bad off, as the others--"
Clint might not can look but Phil does, lets his eyes roam over the sunken body with those long wings limp and lifeless. It looks like his face was smashed in. Phil forces himself to take a deep breath and not gag on the rancid air -- He wants to order this place imploded with the bastards that kept these people here inside. It would be vigilante justice and he'd be tossed into a dark hole for twenty-five to life but it'd be worth it, he thinks.
"I can't promise that he'll be buried," He answered as he turned his attention back to them. "But I can promise that he'll be gotten out of here. They all will." It's a hard pill to swallow but the scientists working for SHIELD will want to study the notes and will likely pour over any and all data available including the bodies. They'd be respectful, of course, and at the end the remains would be cremated and kept in the vaults, away from prying eyes and those that would try to extract any useable DNA for whatever purpose, none of which would be for the good of man.
"We'll get his remains to his family if we can," He lies and hates himself a little for it.
Clint knows a lie when he hears one--has been hearing them for months now: 'now this one won't hurt', 'this is for the greater good', 'you're all going to be fine'-- but he's too tired and too weak to fight for it. As long as they get him out. That's really all Clint can ask, and maybe someone will find their files, years from now, and actually do what needs to be done. He nods and continues his walk to freedom.
And then, all of the sudden, after what feels like maybe a century but can only be five minutes (and think of that, they were only five minutes from freedom the entire time) they are blinking into sunlight for the first time in months.
It hurts. And it's all Clint can do to stay on his feet, but he can't even manage that when the medics reach them, one to each of the girls and another to him. They have kind hands, soft touch and he knows he needs to stay conscious for the girls, but it's a losing battle and he manages to tuck his wings tight before he collapses--but they're still awkwardly large as he passes out, unconscious.
To be perfectly honest, Phil was expecting the crash a lot sooner than when it happened. He'd been ready, silently pacing them from behind, keeping just far enough away to give them the illusion autonomy. When they were outside the doors and medics were rushing-without-looking-like-they-were-rushing forward, he expected them all to simply fall then, but they were, he noted, a stubborn lot. Fiona went down first but she was small and the medic helped her down easily. Natasha was weaker than she had been down in the cells but she kept aware if not fully awake. And Clint? If the medic hadn't of caught him and aided him to the ground then his face would probably have been just as smashed as that avian down below.
Everything seemed to speed up then. Phil coordinated the clean up and lock down of the facility while the medics did what they could to stabilize their patients for transportation. Phil monitored them remotely until they were safely on the extraction transport and a fading dot in the skyline. He'd check in with the team once he got back to the Heli-carrier. More than likely Fury would want him to continue contact with Barton to determine whether or not recruitment was still viable.
Twenty-six hours later, the facility sanitized, the fanatics safely locked away in the deepest, darkest hole they could find, and the paperwork finalized, Phil made his way towards the medical wing to check in. Doctor Redfield had mentioned that their guests were giving them problems earlier but had settled down once they'd all been placed in the same room which, according to him, was a tight fit and would have to be rectified. Phil ignored him and set up camp in a chair just inside the door of their room when he got there.
Clint comes to first. He's been shifted onto his side, because his wings make it impossible for him to be flat on his back unless they're spread and with three beds lodged into one small exam room, there definitely isn't room.
"Thank you," He says quietly as he noticed the agent who had sprung them sitting at the foot of his bed.
"I could give you a very pat explanation of how we found the facility and that I was just doing my job, but I won't because that might make you inclined to feel grateful." The shrug is little more than a minute twitch. SHIELD was a lot of things and opportunistic was one of them. It wasn't their best quality but it was useful. Phil didn't particularly care to be opportunistic at the moment. "If your name hadn't of tripped an alert we might not have even paid attention."
"I'm very glad it did, though, because those....people," He spat the word, a harsh sound that would have echoed in the overcrowded room if it had been any less so. "Those people needed to be stopped. Their experiments were horrific, cruel, something that I didn't want to believe happened out of H. G. Wells novels, and I'm damn glad that we followed those loose ended leads straight to it - you." Phil shifted in his chair, hands folding in his lap. "I'm sorry we didn't get there sooner."
That part of the facility was older than the rest, slightly unkempt, and wholly terrifying. When they forced their way past the security doors they were met with an overwhelming smell of filth and decomposition. One of the agents retreated out of the doors to retch but fell back into step behind the rest moments later. He wouldn't have been missed since it didn't seem like any of the others aside from Coulson had moved, too horror-struck to continue forward.
The walls were lined with what looked like over-sized kennels, half a dozen cages and all filled with what could only be the ten viable subjects. The creatures curled up, moaning or just not moving at all, little resembled the healthy people that had smiled up from the pictures Phil had thumbed through when he'd been assigned this mission, but underneath the filth of unwashed skin, dirt, and in some cases, bloated features and blackened skin, he could pick out individuals whose names he memorized. Six of the ten were dead and of those alive only three were people SHIELD knew about.
Phil ordered sent out a curt order for a medical team to get down here fucking yesterday and strode towards the closest cage, gun drawn and face grim, with the intent to break the damn lock off.
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Research and development. That's what the scientists who collected them raved about when they were first brought in--he was in the third batch, still early, still fresh, they were brought in four and five at a time--about how their volunteerism would help further the human race, help bring about the next stage in human evolution. He'd snidely pointed out that normally volunteers didn't have handcuffs and had spent two days getting knocked around and having their meager rations withheld for his trouble. That, he found, would be common.
And then the experiments had started. Hour after hour and day after day of needles and scalpels and sutures and modifications and tests. Any protest led to a refusal of food, or pain or something unpleasant so that by the end of the first month they were as docile as properly trained dogs, barely human any more, following the path from their cells to the labs without complaint. Every now and again--after he'd had a few solid meals, maybe, or after he'd been spared some of the rougher tests--he'd mouth off, remember a bit of himself and his stubbornness, but it was just as quickly stamped out--
So the experiments continued, and finally they learned what was happening to them. The introduction of animal DNA to the human genome, modification, radiation, adaptation, all of it in some bizarre scientific process that was 'revolutionary', 'outstanding' and 'alone in it's field'! Something that would change the course of humanity for generations to come. The only problem, of course, was the 90% mortality rate.
There had been ten of them though, out of the eighty or so he counted that came and went, that made it through their serum injection, through the radiation, through the modifications. And he'd gotten to know them, after hours of sitting in their respective cells with nothing to do except talk. There's Natalie, the one they turned into a cat, whose eyes glowed after they killed the lights each night. Aiden, who'd become half man and half dog, who was still alive--so he counted as a success--but who couldn't stand on legs that were more canine than human. Roger and Rufus--twins, and therefore of great interest, who now sported scales and forked tongues that made it nearly impossible to speak. Regina, who survived through her first day as part bear but had collapsed in the middle of the following night and hadn't gotten gotten back up again. Fiona, the tiny redhead with her new tail and darting fox-like eyes. Alexander and Alondra, another pair of twins who, like Regina, had survived a few days as abominations--part insect with fractured eyes and extra clicking arms, but had died soon after. Bodies too incompatible. And then there's Adrian and him. The Avians. A16 and A37 to the scientists that made them this way. Wings that spread nearly fifteen feet tip to tip when he's got them spread out are now a part of him, two extra limbs, as vital to his livelihood as his arms and his legs now. He is, he hears, one of the most successful permutations.
Which means he's the one on which they do most of their testing--
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So like he said, it's just him, and Natalie, and Fiona by the time that cavalry makes it through the door, and he groans, shields his eyes from the light and shakes his head as the man approaches his cage.
"The girls--" He croaks, voice scratchy and tired from disuse--none of them really felt like talking after Aiden--nodding to the cages further down the row. "They need a medic first--check on them."
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He spares a glance to the cages on either side of the one he's in front of and notes that only one that holds a living being; he spots the other female to the right where two agents were wrestling with the padlocks that kept the prison secured.
"You could all use a medic," He replied but moved to the cage where a woman lay curled and shivering in the back, away from the door. "Ma'am? Ma'am, I'm going to get you out of this cage." He brandished his gun, pointing it at the ground but making sure that she could see it clearly. "The men upstairs weren't very cooperative and I don't think the keys to these locks are anywhere in here so I'm going to shoot the lock off."
The woman was watching him with wide, frightened eyes but she nodded and curled herself up, impossibly smaller, and wrapped her arms over her head. "It's okay to be frightened but I'm not going to hurt you," He reassured and pulled the trigger. He didn't hesitate in turning and shooting off the others closest to him, getting them all off and cages open in one fell swoop.
"I'm going to stand right out here and wait for the medics to come take a look at you, alright? They'll be here soon and they can check the both of you out."
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There's a wince, at the sound of the gunshots, and he can't help throwing his wings up as a sort of shield, even though he knows the man isn't directing the shots at him. He lets out a sigh of relief as he hears the metal of the padlock hit the ground, and he's moving before he really thinks about it. His steps are weaker than he means them to be, but they're strong enough to get him to the cell door, which he pushes open, and then down to the cell the man seems to be guarding and slips inside, not sparing the agent a look, not yet at least, and gathers the trembling woman in his arms.
"Shhh, Fiona, it's me. It's Clint." His wings are mantled over her almost instinctively and he looks over his shoulder at the man. "Get the other girl, Natalie, help her here, please. Carry her if she needs it," They'd become his family, in their two month captivity, the nine of them here. And he'd really like to make sure the two he has left stay with him. He needs to make sure they're safe--
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He was willing to do just that, to walk over to the other cage and carry 'Natalie' from there and into the cage with the other two but he didn't know her condition, if she'd even be able to make it. He was saved from having to voice that by a squawk surprise from several agents behind him and a darting figure that sped past him and all but dove into the cage; Natalie, apparently, was able and could make it just fine. Phil blinked and arched a brow but didn't, otherwise, show his own surprise.
"I'll make sure the medics know not to separate you three, then." Because Phil had a feeling that if anyone tried, tired, beaten, and as frail as these three looked, there would be hell to pay. He'd have to contact Roland and McKinney to convey the request to the extraction team and then to the recovery facility that these three would end up at. For now, however, he stood vigilant at the mouth of the cage and kept silent guard.
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"Frankly, sir," he replies softly, looking up over the two women held close to him, "if you try to separate us, you won't like the outcome."
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"Outside, please. Get us out of here--"
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The agents scrambled to obey and soon it was just a sentry at the door and Phil left in the room with the three injured huddled in the cage. He took another step back and secured his weapon, tucking his hands into his pocket afterward.
"Do you need help coming out or can you all manage?"
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It takes them a while, he struggles to his feet and then helps Fiona to hers (Natalie had already scrambled to hers). His wings twitch absently against his back, because he wants to keep them mantled around the girls, but the muscles are exhausted, overused as they are from the tests, and he can do little than let them drag behind him, the tips crossed over each other and dragging along the grime of the floor.
He moves forward with the girls, slow, steady footsteps that carry them toward the exit and freedom. He winces with each step, limping, and they make progress though it is at a snails pace. As they reach the agent--the man who seems to be calling the shots here, he speaks, and this time his voice is weak for a completely different reason.
"The boy--the teenager--the other avian?" He's not going to look in Aiden's cell, he can't. "Can you bring his body out? Bury him? He's only--" he has to swallow, clear his throat, and Fiona has buried her head in his side. "--only been dead a couple days. It shouldn't be as bad off, as the others--"
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"I can't promise that he'll be buried," He answered as he turned his attention back to them. "But I can promise that he'll be gotten out of here. They all will." It's a hard pill to swallow but the scientists working for SHIELD will want to study the notes and will likely pour over any and all data available including the bodies. They'd be respectful, of course, and at the end the remains would be cremated and kept in the vaults, away from prying eyes and those that would try to extract any useable DNA for whatever purpose, none of which would be for the good of man.
"We'll get his remains to his family if we can," He lies and hates himself a little for it.
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And then, all of the sudden, after what feels like maybe a century but can only be five minutes (and think of that, they were only five minutes from freedom the entire time) they are blinking into sunlight for the first time in months.
It hurts. And it's all Clint can do to stay on his feet, but he can't even manage that when the medics reach them, one to each of the girls and another to him. They have kind hands, soft touch and he knows he needs to stay conscious for the girls, but it's a losing battle and he manages to tuck his wings tight before he collapses--but they're still awkwardly large as he passes out, unconscious.
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Everything seemed to speed up then. Phil coordinated the clean up and lock down of the facility while the medics did what they could to stabilize their patients for transportation. Phil monitored them remotely until they were safely on the extraction transport and a fading dot in the skyline. He'd check in with the team once he got back to the Heli-carrier. More than likely Fury would want him to continue contact with Barton to determine whether or not recruitment was still viable.
Twenty-six hours later, the facility sanitized, the fanatics safely locked away in the deepest, darkest hole they could find, and the paperwork finalized, Phil made his way towards the medical wing to check in. Doctor Redfield had mentioned that their guests were giving them problems earlier but had settled down once they'd all been placed in the same room which, according to him, was a tight fit and would have to be rectified. Phil ignored him and set up camp in a chair just inside the door of their room when he got there.
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"Thank you," He says quietly as he noticed the agent who had sprung them sitting at the foot of his bed.
"You know, for getting us out."
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"I'm very glad it did, though, because those....people," He spat the word, a harsh sound that would have echoed in the overcrowded room if it had been any less so. "Those people needed to be stopped. Their experiments were horrific, cruel, something that I didn't want to believe happened out of H. G. Wells novels, and I'm damn glad that we followed those loose ended leads straight to it - you." Phil shifted in his chair, hands folding in his lap. "I'm sorry we didn't get there sooner."
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