oedipisms

Clint’s in hick territory. He knows this because the stench of gutter urine and urban detritus has transitioned rather elegantly into the homely aroma of cow patties. Reminds him of growing up running through dairy pastures under the blazing hot sun in the middle of buttfuck plains America. Or train rides on adrenaline-framed runaway nights, or the high of circus performances and daring stunt work. The setting sun lends credence to the memories.

Real nostalgic and all, but he’s got a trail to follow and the smell is kind of distracting him from that. He pulls his attention back to what’s immediately before him.

He’s hitched a ride on the back of a poorly secured eighteen wheeler from the suburbs of the city along I-87 into deeply rural midstate New York. Not a lot of missions as of late have taken him out so far from civilization, so he’s excited to get a taste of the countryside. Hell, maybe he’ll scope out a nice spot to plan a camping trip with Kate while he’s out here; the kid could afford to shed some tension.

His target is some low-level nobody felon who’s been just on the wrong side of too active around the outskirts of the mob in the southern Manhattan-Brooklyn area. A real scumbag; been bagging bodies for hitmen and running sex trafficking schemes back and forth between various families. Clint got called up to deal with him when it became apparent that he was stocking artillery for some sort of targeted attack. Should be a one-night job. Clint doesn’t have the time or amount of sleep required for a long-haul recon mission.

The guy’s been obsessively stalking a couple of local vigilantes, which is a relatively recent shift in his behavior. He’s also been leaving the city consistently for days on end. One of the higher ups at the agency to which Clint’s contracted thinks the guy might be planning a bombing at one of the various enhanced person strongholds scattered around the city. Whatever the threat, Clint’s getting paid to track him down, so track him he will.

He hops out of the trailer while the trucker is inside a gas station chowing down on room-temperature hot dogs. It’s dark as all hell. His duffle feels a lot heavier than it did when he started out, but he chalks that up to caffeine withdrawal and hops a low fence after hitching the thing higher onto his shoulder.

Last he saw of the pickup he’s been tracking, it was turning down a private road about a quarter mile from the station. He manhandles some barbed wire fencing into submission to cross into a field of corn. It’s very horror movie-esque. Would be a good prank to pull on Kate after this.

Headlights pull Clint’s attention north. 500 yards away, give or take. Powerful, tinted blue. A newer model or recently updated. Definitely the one he’s been following. He hadn’t caught the brand or make during the day but he knows it’s white and mudstained and lifted to high heaven.

Clint follows the headlights as they slice the silhouetted corn stalks and disappear past the northeast corner of the field. He marches on for a couple of minutes and finds the northern edge of the corn. The road is made of gravel and limerock and it’s absolutely deserted. The truck’s tail lights are nowhere to be found. The pockmarked surface stretches interminably into the dark distance.

Looks like he’s in for a bit of a walk.

“Jesus, who the hell decided that backroads could be so long” is what’s going through Clint’s head by the time he finds the first driveway. It’s been damn near an hour and he’s been jogging reluctantly since the thirty minute mark.

Should have brought those capri suns he’s got sitting on his counter. Better yet, the six pack of Coors hanging out next to them.

He stops to pant into the cooling air and give his right side a break from the bag. The only sound his aids have picked up on in the past couple of miles is the infuriatingly monotonous buzzing of frogs, or cicadas, or whatever those things that eat crops are called. Everything else is still and silent and muggy like it’s just rained.

Clint breathes deep for a minute or so, and then picks the bag back up and turns down the drive. His eyesight ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at, but he can’t see the house anywhere within the quarter mile of visibility he has down the drive. Here’s hoping that this is the right place.

It’s not the right fucking place. He jogs for another mile before the house comes into view, and when he gets close enough to see the carport protecting the decades-old Volkswagen bug and the collection of sheep in the backyard, he huffs and turns around.

It’s another half hour of excruciating running-turned-power-walking before another drive appears. This one looks promising; the property is enclosed by a fence topped with angry looking razor wire, the mailbox sways precariously in the nonexistent breeze, and the sign zip-tied to the gate blocking the path threatens the use of some sort of gun in the event that anyone should take it upon themselves to trespass. Clint sets his duffle down to grab a camping knife out of one of the pockets. He slices through the zip ties and takes the sign as a souvenir. Thing’s gonna look metal as hell bungeed to the door of his fridge at home.

There’s a new noise as well. It’s another, lower-pitched kind of buzzing, and he plays with his aids to see if it’ll make itself known. It clears up a bit; sounds like steady car traffic, but he can’t pinpoint the direction from which it originates.

He tosses the duffle over the gate and climbs in its wake.

This driveway is even longer than the one previous, and Clint is desperately out of breath by the time he finds its end. It branches into two paths that border a giant, ancient barn which is lit up like a damn beacon. The razor wire fencing is long gone, replaced by rows upon rows of trees that border the barn about 300 feet out.

The road noise is much clearer now, and the screeching of whatever that small crop-eating bug is mingles with it discordantly. Nothing else moves or makes a sound. The barn is as still and silent as its surroundings.

Clint creeps into the treeline, puts the bag down, and crouches next to it to unzip it.

The sound of something hard hitting something soft reaches him and the raw-throated scream that follows it pulls his head up to look.

There’s someone in there. More than one someones. The hanging lights illuminating the exterior sway a little but don’t flicker. Clint quickens his prep.

Something happens while he’s looking down because when he glances back up one of the outside lights is out and there’s another sickeningly fleshy thud and then that elicits another scream, much louder and harder-edged than the last one.

This one’s followed by a torn up “please” that’s barely loud enough to register from his vantage point.

He tosses the quiver over his shoulder, straps a couple of combat knives into their holsters, and nocks an arrow.

The building is sturdy but old. It stands about 40 feet high and the only apparent entrances are the closed windows directly below the roof on each side and one large sliding door. The door is open wide enough for someone to slip in, but given how brightly the space is lit up, Clint doesn’t want to risk discovery before assessing the competition. He makes his way to the other side of the building under the cover of the moonshadows cast by the trees.

Bingo. Open windows. He’s even got his pick of the whole back row. How considerate.

Another thud and another cry. This one sounds gargled and hollow, like there’s no impact behind it. There’s a pinched off exclamation from a new voice, a soft tenor that Clint strains to hear.

S’weird, Clint hadn’t noticed more than one person in the truck he’d been tracking on the way out here. He hasn’t seen any other cars anywhere on the property, either. But there are definitely two people in there.

Oh, how ominous this situation bodes.

He tracks some holds on the weathered board siding and scales the wall with the help of a grappling arrow. Balancing on the window is easy money. The height lends some clarity to his mind; he’s got a bird’s eye view of the goings-on inside from here.

Inside is pretty barren. There are a couple of central columns blocking his sightline down the middle, and it’s obvious there’s someone chained to the far side of the one closest to him. He can see the edges of the toes of combat boots peeking out and a bloodied hand braced around the side of the column visible to him.

There is a padlock that is easy to identify from his position, and a couple of ratchet straps tangled up in the chains.

There’s a foldable table a few yards away from the chained column. It holds some rope, several yard tools, and the same kind of razor wire from the perimeter fence.

Another impact. The hand disappears from this side of the column. The person who’s chained up doesn’t even scream. The combat boots roll out of view. The person doing the hitting pants into the quiet and lands another blow.

A big guy steps into view and Clint gets a good look at him. Definitely his mark. He’s wearing the same clothes and everything. Well, except for the good pint of drying blood that stains the front of his shirt and pants reddish-black. Mister Abuser turns to the table of fun medieval torture devices and reaches for the wire and, yeah. It’s time to intervene.

Clint does some quick thinking and sends an explosive arrow flying into the welcoming branches of a tree on the edge of the clearing behind him. The thing ignites and the whole barn shakes with the impact of the explosion.

Mister Abuser whips around to the windows and Clint ducks out of sight. He hears a muttered curse and risks a peek inside. He catches sight of the tail end of a sprinting sneaker on its way out the big door. The bait seems to be working; that arrow will buy him maybe two minutes before his mark catches on.

Clint shimmies his way into the barn and rappels down the wall. When his feet hit the ground, the person who’s chained up makes some kind of noise. Less than a groan, really. It sounds empty. Directionless. Clint makes his way to the column, one eye on the big door. He can still hear the flames roaring outside.

He knocks the folding table over for shits and giggles, then turns to assess the situation attached to the column.

Oh fuck.

Of course the guy lashed to the pillar is his goddamned lawyer. Murdock looks like hell. He’s draped in an ancient, bloody, and torn-to-shit boxer’s robe. Guy’s bleeding in several places, but what freaks Clint out is the fact that his mark--the perp--seems to have done something to Murdock’s face. There are slow-moving rivers of blood sliding down his cheeks like tears, and there’s something wrong with his eyes.

Ain’t Murdock blind? The hell’s wrong with his eyes?

Clint double-checks that Beefy Shitface is still occupied. He sends another explosive arrow whistling through the window to make nice with its compatriot in the tree. The shock of the impact causes Murdock to flinch.

Okay. Only got a minute. First step. What’s the first step?

Those chains need to go. Sure nice of his mark to leave a pair of fatass bolt cutters hanging out among the scattered mess of the folding table’s contents. Clint tries not to think about what he’d been planning to do with those.

When Clint crouches to get leverage against one of the chain links, he can hear Murdock’s ragged, busted breathing. He seems to be passed out or close to it. Clint’s currently banking on the fact that he hasn’t gone into shock or worse, but considering the blood loss and freaky face trauma, that’s looking less likely.

The chain breaks and he gets to work on loosening it. Murdock tenses and cries out as it shifts. Clint shushes him, says, “Hey, man. It’s Barton. I’ve gotta get you out of this, need you to be quiet.” He checks his six for any sight of his mark while he works on unwinding the chain. He can’t have too much longer. Needs to be thinking of another strategy for distraction. He could barricade the door, close the windows, but he worries that might incite the guy to use the truck as a battering ram. He doesn’t think there’s much of a chance of getting Murdock to stand on his own, and there ain’t no way he’s gonna be able to lift him safely through those windows.

He encounters a tight point at Murdock’s torso where the chain crosses over itself a couple of times. It seems to be stuck on something, and it refuses to slide one way or the other. He gives a bit of a tug to the right and, jesus fucking christ, it comes free to the tune of the sickening crunch of bone shifting against bone. Murdock snaps upright from where he’s been slumped over, whimpering. He screams so loud and so hard that it curdles Clint’s blood, reverberates in the marrow of his bones.

Murdock screams again when Clint puts his hand on his shoulder to placate him. He opens his eyes, except there are no eyes to open, just bleeding and raw and oh, so very empty sockets.

Clint scrambles back and retches.

Jesus. Jesus. What the fuck, why the fuck would anyone do this? What did Murdock do to deserve this?

Not the time to freak out. Clint’s seen worse. He gets back to work on the chain, speaking softly, telling Murdock that it’s going to be okay, he’s here to help. The thing finally comes away from where it’s pinned Murdock to the post. The poor guy has fallen back unconscious, thank fuck.

Clint’s hindbrain decides that a barricade is the way to go in terms of next steps, so he finds himself pulling the loud fucking barn door closed as fast as the track that it’s on will allow it to go. He uses a grappling arrow to secure it and hauls ass back to Murdock’s slumped form. He starts sawing through the binds on his legs.

All fucking hell breaks loose outside.

Gunshots are coming from the direction of the still-lit trees. The earth shakes. Sounds like some sort of semi- or fully automatic. Clint watches the flashes that come through the windows and light up the space overhead. Another gun joins the fight, and someone screams. The steel cable connected to Clint’s grappling arrow falls gracelessly to the ground, severed.

Someone alights on the westernmost window. Clint gets through the final bit of binding and catches Murdock when he leans too far to one side. He lays him out flat on his back, careful not to put pressure on his ribcage or look too closely at his face.

A shadow moves in the corner of Clint’s vision. He nocks an arrow, breathes in, turns to aim--

Spider-Man is three inches from the end of his fucking bow. Clint redirects a fraction of a second before his fingers loose the arrow. It ends up lodged in the wall to his right. The gunfight rages outside.

“Damn it, kid, some warning next time!”

Spidey’s upside-down suit eyes bore into his soul. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh-uh. You first.”

“Lookin’ for him,” Spidey replies, flipping upright all easy and languid, pointing at Murdock’s abused face.

“You know Murdock?”

Spidey gives him a look. If Clint could see his eyes, he’d guess it’s made up of teenage frustration and bemusement. “Uh--”

Murdock coughs and it wracks his whole body. Spidey drops off the end of the conversation and rushes to his side. Clint holds out a warning hand and says, “Look, kid, there’s, uh, his--”

“Oh my god.” Spidey drops his gloved hand from where it’s touching Murdock’s face. “Oh, no, oh my god.”

And just like that, Clint’s alone again. The kid leaves a breeze of muggy air and web fluid in his wake.

Clint wishes he’d brought his duffle. His first-aid kit’s in there. For now, he fumbles for his phone and cuts away the destroyed shirt and boxing robe from Murdock's chest and arms. His naked chest is covered in angry bruising, deep cuts, and ugly abrasions in the shape of chains. It’s obvious that there are at least a few broken or shattered bones in there. He’s got some crazy-looking old scars, too. They stand out white against the red of the new wounds.

The gunfire picks up. Something explodes out front. Probably the truck. Clint can imagine exactly three people who would accompany Spider-Man with access to so much firepower. Sure as hell ain’t Barnes; he got shipped off to South America for a mission a couple days ago. That leaves the Punisher or Deadpool.

Clint really fucking hopes it’s the Punisher.

The phone picks up and Clint haggles with the guy on the emergency services line for a minute before realizing he doesn’t have an address. Well, shit. He gives the guy the road name, zip code, a description of the property, and figures they can trace the call if they need to. It’s time for a new burner anyway.

The door to the barn gets blown off its track and thrown a good fifteen feet. Clint shields Murdock’s body from the debris it kicks up.

Deadpool jaunts in amongst the dust. He’s got about three different rifles strapped to him. Hundreds of bullets worth of magazines. In his arms is some terrifying, monstrous combination of an old-timey bazooka and a grenade launcher. Good stuff. Clint backs the hell up and gets out of the way.

Spidey swings down in front of Deadpool and stops the guy in his tracks. Clint can’t hear them with all the ambient noise, but Deadpool tries to get past the kid and Spidey digs his hands into those giant shoulders, which have to be half a head taller than him. He braces his feet when Deadpool pushes against him. One of his legs is shaking. They bicker for a moment before Clint notices Deadpool drop the tension in his shoulders. He hears the frustrated plea, sees Spidey nod his head. Spidey’s arms drop to his sides. Clint watches Deadpool sweep that shaky leg right out from under the poor sucker.

Deadpool makes it to Murdock before Spidey can recover. Clint approaches, cautious. Spidey comes up to stand beside him. He hiccups a sob under the mask.

Is Spidey crying? Is Peter crying over Clint’s lawyer? How does he even know him?

Deadpool’s figured out what all the fuss is about. One of his hands sits on Murdock’s bloodied cheeks. It comes away and leaves a smear. He checks Murdock’s breathing and pulse. He braces his hands on his kneeling thighs, lowers his head, and holds his breath for about half a minute.

He stands, a wall. Peter pleads, “Wade, you can’t kill him, please.”

Deadpool looks at Clint with white suit eyes made of impenetrable marble. “Keep the kid in here for a minute.”

Hold up, wait a second. “The guy who did this is my mark, man. If he’s still alive, I’m taking him in.”

“There’ll be no need for that. Keep the kid here. Call emergency services if you haven’t already.” Wade pushes past Clint’s crossed arms and strides towards the blown up entryway.

Ain’t no point in chasing after all those guns. That’s asking for a bullet to the face.

Peter fucking crumples on top of Murdock.

It hurts so bad to drag him off, but he’s crushing the guy’s already-broken ribs.

It takes three minutes, fifty-three seconds, and one gunshot that rings too long in Clint’s aids for Deadpool to return.

The ringing turns into sirens turns into blue and red lights that stop moving after they’ve encircled the building. Deadpool tells Clint around arms full of distraught Spidey to fuck off if he doesn’t want to get arrested.

No arguments here, Mr. Murder, sir. Clint beats a hasty retreat.

Murdock’s shrieks of agony, hundreds of bullets firing, Peter’s hoarse cries. They all catch in his aids and play on a loop in his head while he sneaks around cop cars and ambulances and fire trucks to his bag. Clint takes them out. They spend the trip home in the bottom of the duffle. The silence isn’t much of an improvement.

The kid calls him ten hours after he gets back into the city. He sounds like amplified exhaustion and tear-strained vocal cords. He tells Clint that Murdock’s in the ICU at one of the Mount Sinais. He says that Clint can come visit once Murdock is stable enough to be transferred.

No, that’s probably not the best idea. He’ll send some consolation flowers to Nelson instead. It’ll be enough.