this is not an Avengers fic.
May. 31st, 2012 08:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardIf I was writing this fic, which I'm clearly not, it would start a lot like this. But I'm not writing it, obviously. But if I was it would look like this.
“Tash?” Clint rasped. His fingers twitched against hers, and she managed to twitch hers back, which was about the extent of the movement she could manage right now.
“I’m here,” she croaked. “Anyone else – Cap? Stark? Thor? Hulk?”
No reply. Natasha just lay there, letting the feeling return slowly to her extremities and listening to Clint breathe. Not being able to move was making her itch, even if she couldn’t hear anything more threatening than some birds in the distance and the wind in the trees. Which didn’t bode well, since the last thing she remembered they’d been in Jackson Square in New Orleans, dealing with some kind of mutant ninja zombies. This was definitely not New Orleans.
Eventually she managed to open her eyes, staring up at a perfect circle of pale gray sky above them. She sat up, fingers skidding through fine gray ash, and put her hand to her earpiece. “This is Romanov. Does anyone copy?”
There was no answer – not even dead air. Natasha took her earpiece out in disgust and looked at it. “Clint?”
“Mine’s dead too.” After a moment he stowed it away on his belt, shrugging, and checked his bow over.
He didn’t look any better than she felt, Natasha observed. The gray ash had settled over him, turning his hair gray and tinting his skin an unhealthy color. He offered her a hand up and she took it, rolling her shoulders back and hearing them pop. They stood back to back looking around.
They were in the middle of a forest, somewhere in Europe, Natasha guessed. On either side of them, like a perfect circle with them at the epicenter, was pale gray ash. The clearing was so perfect it could have been cut by a laser, and maybe had been – some of the trees on either side of them had been cut clean through.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Clint said eventually.
“You think?”
They stomped around in the ash for a couple of minutes, looking at the clean slices that had been taken from the trees around them, up at the sky above. Clint pulled his satphone out of a pouch on his belt and tried it, then banged it against a tree trunk a couple of times and tried it again. It stayed dead.
Natasha went to the edge of the circle and kicked at the ash, which was ankle deep and doing horrible things to her uniform and probably to her hair. Outside the circle, it looked like perfectly normal deciduous forest. Natasha lifted one foot to step out of it when she heard the voices.
She and Clint didn’t need to speak. Natasha flipped herself up into the nearest tree, while he swarmed up the trunk. They crouched beside each other on one wide branch, Clint sliding an arrow onto the string of his bow while she palmed the butt of her gun.
They came cautiously into the clearing a few minutes later – a dapper dark-haired man with an excited expression, a pretty woman with black hair and a gun, and two men in uniform, both carrying rifles and one of whom was wearing a bowler hat. She and Clint looked at each other. They’d read the same files; there was no question about who these people were.
“This is remarkable!” said the man. “Are you seeing this, Agent Carter?”
“Yes, I’m seeing it,” she said patiently, looking around at the clearing. She laid her hand on his arm and said, “Howard, stop.”
He stopped. “Why?”
“Because someone’s been here,” the man with the bowler hat supplied, pointing his gun at the tracks Clint and Natasha had left. “Recently.”
Howard Stark’s gaze went unerringly to the depressions in the center of the circle. He went over immediately, ignoring Agent Carter’s protests. “Two someones, I’d say. How remarkable –”
Natasha tapped her fingers against Clint’s wrist. He glanced at her, glanced down, and nodded. “Agent Peggy Carter?” Natasha called. “Dr. Howard Stark?”
Four pairs of eyes swung up to stare at them, along with three guns. The tree cover didn’t do much to conceal them. “Who are you?” Carter demanded. The barrel of her pistol didn’t waver. “How do you know our names?”
Natasha leapt lightly down to the ground, holding up her hands to show that they were empty. Clint landed beside her, replacing the arrow in his quiver, though he held onto the bow. “I’m Natasha Romanov,” she said.
“And I’m Clint Barton. We work for SHIELD – the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”
“If you expect that to mean something –” Carter began.
“What year is it?” Natasha interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“What year is it?” she repeated.
“1945,” Carter said crisply. “March.”
“Oh, hell,” Clint muttered.
“Why do you ask?” Howard Stark said, with a familiar avid expression on his face.
Clint and Natasha looked at each other. “We’re from 2012,” Natasha said simply.
“Tash?” Clint rasped. His fingers twitched against hers, and she managed to twitch hers back, which was about the extent of the movement she could manage right now.
“I’m here,” she croaked. “Anyone else – Cap? Stark? Thor? Hulk?”
No reply. Natasha just lay there, letting the feeling return slowly to her extremities and listening to Clint breathe. Not being able to move was making her itch, even if she couldn’t hear anything more threatening than some birds in the distance and the wind in the trees. Which didn’t bode well, since the last thing she remembered they’d been in Jackson Square in New Orleans, dealing with some kind of mutant ninja zombies. This was definitely not New Orleans.
Eventually she managed to open her eyes, staring up at a perfect circle of pale gray sky above them. She sat up, fingers skidding through fine gray ash, and put her hand to her earpiece. “This is Romanov. Does anyone copy?”
There was no answer – not even dead air. Natasha took her earpiece out in disgust and looked at it. “Clint?”
“Mine’s dead too.” After a moment he stowed it away on his belt, shrugging, and checked his bow over.
He didn’t look any better than she felt, Natasha observed. The gray ash had settled over him, turning his hair gray and tinting his skin an unhealthy color. He offered her a hand up and she took it, rolling her shoulders back and hearing them pop. They stood back to back looking around.
They were in the middle of a forest, somewhere in Europe, Natasha guessed. On either side of them, like a perfect circle with them at the epicenter, was pale gray ash. The clearing was so perfect it could have been cut by a laser, and maybe had been – some of the trees on either side of them had been cut clean through.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Clint said eventually.
“You think?”
They stomped around in the ash for a couple of minutes, looking at the clean slices that had been taken from the trees around them, up at the sky above. Clint pulled his satphone out of a pouch on his belt and tried it, then banged it against a tree trunk a couple of times and tried it again. It stayed dead.
Natasha went to the edge of the circle and kicked at the ash, which was ankle deep and doing horrible things to her uniform and probably to her hair. Outside the circle, it looked like perfectly normal deciduous forest. Natasha lifted one foot to step out of it when she heard the voices.
She and Clint didn’t need to speak. Natasha flipped herself up into the nearest tree, while he swarmed up the trunk. They crouched beside each other on one wide branch, Clint sliding an arrow onto the string of his bow while she palmed the butt of her gun.
They came cautiously into the clearing a few minutes later – a dapper dark-haired man with an excited expression, a pretty woman with black hair and a gun, and two men in uniform, both carrying rifles and one of whom was wearing a bowler hat. She and Clint looked at each other. They’d read the same files; there was no question about who these people were.
“This is remarkable!” said the man. “Are you seeing this, Agent Carter?”
“Yes, I’m seeing it,” she said patiently, looking around at the clearing. She laid her hand on his arm and said, “Howard, stop.”
He stopped. “Why?”
“Because someone’s been here,” the man with the bowler hat supplied, pointing his gun at the tracks Clint and Natasha had left. “Recently.”
Howard Stark’s gaze went unerringly to the depressions in the center of the circle. He went over immediately, ignoring Agent Carter’s protests. “Two someones, I’d say. How remarkable –”
Natasha tapped her fingers against Clint’s wrist. He glanced at her, glanced down, and nodded. “Agent Peggy Carter?” Natasha called. “Dr. Howard Stark?”
Four pairs of eyes swung up to stare at them, along with three guns. The tree cover didn’t do much to conceal them. “Who are you?” Carter demanded. The barrel of her pistol didn’t waver. “How do you know our names?”
Natasha leapt lightly down to the ground, holding up her hands to show that they were empty. Clint landed beside her, replacing the arrow in his quiver, though he held onto the bow. “I’m Natasha Romanov,” she said.
“And I’m Clint Barton. We work for SHIELD – the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”
“If you expect that to mean something –” Carter began.
“What year is it?” Natasha interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“What year is it?” she repeated.
“1945,” Carter said crisply. “March.”
“Oh, hell,” Clint muttered.
“Why do you ask?” Howard Stark said, with a familiar avid expression on his face.
Clint and Natasha looked at each other. “We’re from 2012,” Natasha said simply.