Fic: "Survival Instinct"
title: Survival Instinct
author: perletwo
words: 980, give or take
rating: G
fandom: Marvel movieverse
warnings: one or two bad words
prompt: Surveillance, at avengers_tables
His fellow soldiers consider Private First Class Clint Barton a valuable asset. His superior officers think he adds a certain shine to the success of their wartime missions in Afghanistan. His mates in the barracks know his unusual skill-set has saved their lives numerous times.
But still, there are certain qualities to PFC Barton they can’t help but find - unsettling. The officers call it a sixth sense. Around the barracks they just call it spooky.
Clint knows it’s just a part of him, like the calluses on his hands or how he habitually distributes his weight. At Carson’s Traveling Circus of Wonders, Swordsman and Trick Shot taught him to be a hunter. Before that, as a young runaway, he was prey. Both states heightened primitive instincts housed in the hindbrain, and the use of them to canvass for threats, for cover, for potential weapons and allies, is so ingrained he no longer notices himself doing it.
Eyes in the back of his head, they say; he’s heard it. In reality he just knows how to stand still and listen, to look around and fully see. To him it’s not difficult or mysterious; in fact he knows the Army’s trained some of his fellow soldiers in the tricks, though none of them have yet come up to his skill level. He thinks one or two of them might get there, if they don’t get killed or muster out at their twenty.
In any case, it’s why he turns lightly and casually into a dimly lit alley off a Miami street, one weekend while on leave. It’s why he pivots sharply, without warning, and a pair of throwing knives leave his hands with lethal speed.
One knife slices into the sleeve of a black leather jacket and pins the arm occupying it to the wall. The second whistles past an ear to pin the jacket’s collar; its owner had already shifted his weight to the other side, and a third knife, aimed to anticipate the move, pinned the other arm neatly to the wall. For his finale, Clint moved in close and held the edge of a fourth knife to the throat of the tall black man with an eyepatch.
“Who are you?” Clint demanded. “What’re you doing following me around?”
To his annoyance, the man simply began to chuckle. “Stop that.”
“What for? I’d applaud, but my hands are a little tied up.” Clint glowered at him. “You really are as good as they say you are. Good to know.”
“Who is ‘they,’ what’re you asking around about me for, and again, who are you?” Clint pressed the point of the knife a little harder against the big man’s skin.
“‘They’ is the U.S. Army; because I’m considering offering you a job; and my name is Col. Nick Fury. My I.D.’s in my jacket pocket if you want to check it.”
Clint lifted the billfold and read the card. “What the hell is a Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate?”
“It’s a mouthful of a name for an elite black ops division. One that’s been around in one form or another since World War II, mostly - but not entirely - to oppose an opposite number that grew out of the Axis Powers’ military intelligence agencies. We recruit the best of the best, and we’ve been watching you for quite a while. We think your top potential is going to waste at the job you’re doing now.”
Clint put the billfold back. “So, what, this was a test? Guess I passed. Your black ops agency’s not impressing me much so far, though.”
Fury smirked. “Look down.”
Clint looked, and found a red pinpoint of light directly over his heart. He looked up to see a red-haired woman in a dark bodysuit on a ledge a few stories above, aiming a sniper rifle at him. At the same time he felt cold metal touch the skin behind his ear and heard the cocking of a pistol, and his entire body stiffened.
“Impressed yet?” came a soft voice behind him on his left side. He slewed his eyes in its direction and saw a hand holding the gun; its owner seemed to melt out of the shadows, a nondescript white man in a sharply tailored suit, with thinning hair and kindly eyes.
“How. Did you do that.” Clint felt a chill. He’d had no warning of either the second man or the woman, who was descending on a zip-cord attached to the ledge rather like a big black spider.
Fury smiled. “We’re just that good. So are you, and we can teach you to be better, if you come on board.” The redhead landed lightly next to Fury, and without looking behind her pulled the knives free of the jacket. He put an arm around her shoulders and, at a slight pressure of his hand, she lowered the rifle. Coulson put the safety back on his gun and holstered it.
“Meet Agent Romanoff, here, and Agent Coulson. If you sign on, they’ll most likely be the two you’ll work most closely with. I think they’ll be a good fit for you.”
Clint looked around at the trio. “What’s in it for me?”
Agent Coulson smiled. “Bad pay, long hours, sleepless nights, zero glory. But you’ll get to do what you do best where you’re needed most with a minimum of bullshit in between, and for the most part, we try really, really hard to make the world a better place at the end of the day.”
Clint studied the man’s face, instincts straining for any hint of guile or hidden intent, and found none. In fact, the smile held a wry, weary edge he found he rather liked.
Fury and Romanoff were watching him expectantly. Acting on instinct, he pivoted again and extended a hand to the colonel.
“Well. With incentives like that, where do I sign?”
author: perletwo
words: 980, give or take
rating: G
fandom: Marvel movieverse
warnings: one or two bad words
prompt: Surveillance, at avengers_tables
His fellow soldiers consider Private First Class Clint Barton a valuable asset. His superior officers think he adds a certain shine to the success of their wartime missions in Afghanistan. His mates in the barracks know his unusual skill-set has saved their lives numerous times.
But still, there are certain qualities to PFC Barton they can’t help but find - unsettling. The officers call it a sixth sense. Around the barracks they just call it spooky.
Clint knows it’s just a part of him, like the calluses on his hands or how he habitually distributes his weight. At Carson’s Traveling Circus of Wonders, Swordsman and Trick Shot taught him to be a hunter. Before that, as a young runaway, he was prey. Both states heightened primitive instincts housed in the hindbrain, and the use of them to canvass for threats, for cover, for potential weapons and allies, is so ingrained he no longer notices himself doing it.
Eyes in the back of his head, they say; he’s heard it. In reality he just knows how to stand still and listen, to look around and fully see. To him it’s not difficult or mysterious; in fact he knows the Army’s trained some of his fellow soldiers in the tricks, though none of them have yet come up to his skill level. He thinks one or two of them might get there, if they don’t get killed or muster out at their twenty.
In any case, it’s why he turns lightly and casually into a dimly lit alley off a Miami street, one weekend while on leave. It’s why he pivots sharply, without warning, and a pair of throwing knives leave his hands with lethal speed.
One knife slices into the sleeve of a black leather jacket and pins the arm occupying it to the wall. The second whistles past an ear to pin the jacket’s collar; its owner had already shifted his weight to the other side, and a third knife, aimed to anticipate the move, pinned the other arm neatly to the wall. For his finale, Clint moved in close and held the edge of a fourth knife to the throat of the tall black man with an eyepatch.
“Who are you?” Clint demanded. “What’re you doing following me around?”
To his annoyance, the man simply began to chuckle. “Stop that.”
“What for? I’d applaud, but my hands are a little tied up.” Clint glowered at him. “You really are as good as they say you are. Good to know.”
“Who is ‘they,’ what’re you asking around about me for, and again, who are you?” Clint pressed the point of the knife a little harder against the big man’s skin.
“‘They’ is the U.S. Army; because I’m considering offering you a job; and my name is Col. Nick Fury. My I.D.’s in my jacket pocket if you want to check it.”
Clint lifted the billfold and read the card. “What the hell is a Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate?”
“It’s a mouthful of a name for an elite black ops division. One that’s been around in one form or another since World War II, mostly - but not entirely - to oppose an opposite number that grew out of the Axis Powers’ military intelligence agencies. We recruit the best of the best, and we’ve been watching you for quite a while. We think your top potential is going to waste at the job you’re doing now.”
Clint put the billfold back. “So, what, this was a test? Guess I passed. Your black ops agency’s not impressing me much so far, though.”
Fury smirked. “Look down.”
Clint looked, and found a red pinpoint of light directly over his heart. He looked up to see a red-haired woman in a dark bodysuit on a ledge a few stories above, aiming a sniper rifle at him. At the same time he felt cold metal touch the skin behind his ear and heard the cocking of a pistol, and his entire body stiffened.
“Impressed yet?” came a soft voice behind him on his left side. He slewed his eyes in its direction and saw a hand holding the gun; its owner seemed to melt out of the shadows, a nondescript white man in a sharply tailored suit, with thinning hair and kindly eyes.
“How. Did you do that.” Clint felt a chill. He’d had no warning of either the second man or the woman, who was descending on a zip-cord attached to the ledge rather like a big black spider.
Fury smiled. “We’re just that good. So are you, and we can teach you to be better, if you come on board.” The redhead landed lightly next to Fury, and without looking behind her pulled the knives free of the jacket. He put an arm around her shoulders and, at a slight pressure of his hand, she lowered the rifle. Coulson put the safety back on his gun and holstered it.
“Meet Agent Romanoff, here, and Agent Coulson. If you sign on, they’ll most likely be the two you’ll work most closely with. I think they’ll be a good fit for you.”
Clint looked around at the trio. “What’s in it for me?”
Agent Coulson smiled. “Bad pay, long hours, sleepless nights, zero glory. But you’ll get to do what you do best where you’re needed most with a minimum of bullshit in between, and for the most part, we try really, really hard to make the world a better place at the end of the day.”
Clint studied the man’s face, instincts straining for any hint of guile or hidden intent, and found none. In fact, the smile held a wry, weary edge he found he rather liked.
Fury and Romanoff were watching him expectantly. Acting on instinct, he pivoted again and extended a hand to the colonel.
“Well. With incentives like that, where do I sign?”