Mass Hysteria
Chapter Five
Mass Hysteria
Natasha had agreed to meet Clint at a private runway in New York City. Rhodey offered to fly with her, since he was headed back to the Avengers Compound to check on Pepper and Tony (who, as far as anyone knew, was still MIA), but Natasha politely declined.
“When I get off the plane,” she told Rhodey as they stood side-by-side in the massive, high-ceilinged airport of Birnin Zana, “I want to be the first thing Barton sees. I don’t want him to feel like this is a big deal. It is, but he has to ease into it.”
“I get it.” Rhodey nodded. His eyes were full of sympathy. “He lost his whole world. It’ll take some time to get his head back in the game.”
Natasha smiled. She laid a hand on Rhodey’s arm. “Good luck,” she said earnestly. “Say ‘hi’ to Pepper for me. And Tony, if you can find him.” Cocking an eyebrow, she turned and walked away.
The flight from Wakanda to New York took a bare ten hours—impressive when compared to the seventeen-plus hours it would take on a commercial jet. Natasha put in her earbuds at the beginning of the trip; she fully meant to listen to music, but ended up sitting in silence. The Dagger knew the route; she let the AI steer. As she flew over the Atlantic toward distant New York, she felt ghostly somehow. Cut off from reality. Like a gust of wind or condensation on a window pane. Half a memory beginning to fade.
When she stepped out of the Dagger at the Atlantic Aviation private runway in New York, Clint Barton was standing on the pavement in his full tactical gear. He’d slung his bow across his back. A bristle of arrows stuck up behind his right shoulder.
In that moment, he was the realest thing she’d ever seen.
“Barton.” Natasha closed the pilot’s hatch and strode toward him. He stood still, unmoving, until she reached him. Then he fell into her like a tree cut at its base. Heavy, broken, in pain. She moved forward to catch him. “Clint,” she said, softly. She slid her gloved hands up his back, tracing the line of his spine through the gray fabric of his jacket. She cupped the back of his neck with one hand. The other spread at the small of his back, pulling them together.
“Nat,” he mumbled into her shoulder. He tucked his chin, his forehead resting on the rubbery material of her combat suit. He breathed erratically, his chest rising and falling too fast. His heart, on the other hand, beat as slow and solemn as a funeral drum. “They’re gone, Nat. All of them. Just… gone.”
I’m here, she thought. I won’t leave you. I promise. But it wasn’t what he needed to hear. And how could she make a promise like that, anyway? So she stayed silent, rubbing her thumb through the tiny, sharp hairs at the base of his neck, breathing in day-old coffee and carbon-fiber polyester.
Clint pulled back after a long, heavy moment. Natasha couldn’t help it—her observational skills kicked in at once; she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way he held himself like a plastic bag left by the freeway: crumpled and battered and torn. “Sorry,” he said, although she had no idea what he was apologizing for. He looked at her, then immediately glanced away. “This—” he gestured at himself, making a disgusted face, “—isn’t something you should have to deal with.”
Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. “Barton,” she said. Then, not wanting to distance him too much, she started over. “Clint, listen. Whatever I can do to help, I’ll do it. You know I’m always here for you.”
He looked up. His expression told her that maybe he didn’t know that. It occurred to her that although she’d always meant to, she’d never said it out loud.
She smiled at him. Tilted her head to one side, raised an eyebrow slightly—the expression she used to mask internal conflict and pain. “Rogers told me to tell you we’re working on a way to bring them back.” It was a cop-out, and she knew it. She could comfort him without making any promises herself. “And knowing Rogers, he’ll find a way to keep his word. Even if it kills him.”
A shadow passed over Clint’s face. “Nat, I should’ve come. Last week, when you called… I should’ve come, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. Moving closer, she took his hand and risked the fall. “They’re your family,” she said firmly. “None of us ever expected you to choose us over them.” She smiled again, tilting her head. There was a lump in her throat she couldn’t quite swallow.
She squeezed his hand, then let it go.
He stood there for a long moment. The two of them alone in the dusky light, wordless and secretly afraid. “It’s chaos,” he said at last. “In the city. In the country. Everywhere, people are losing their goddamn minds.”
Natasha frowned. She hadn’t thought about that. In Wakanda, Okoye, M’Baku, and Shuri had worked so quickly to quell the panic that it had never gotten past the initial stages of fear. Of course, Birnin Zana was an isolated city—a technological wonder where miracles were commonplace—and the Great Battle had happened there, so people knew what had caused The Fade in the first place. Panic was still inevitable, but on a smaller scale. Armed with knowledge, strong leadership, and faith in each other and the strength of their nation, the Wakandans were facing the crisis with admirable bravery and hope. However, now that Natasha thought about it, she was certain that cities like New York and London were dealing with the issue much less gracefully. At some point, that would have to be addressed.
Unfortunately, there was no time like the present.
“What happened?” she asked. Like it would just be one thing. Like she didn’t already know what happened when people lost their minds.
Clint let out his breath in a long, slow sigh. Then, smiling very, very slightly, he said, “Oh, y’know. Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies. Rivers and seas boiling, forty years of darkness, earthquakes, volcanoes, the dead rising from their graves. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together—mass hysteria.”
Natasha half-smiled back at him. “Did you just use a Ghostbusters quote as a mission report?”
“It wasn’t a mission report,” Clint said, but his tiny smile grew a little wider. “I’m retired, remember? I can quote whatever I want. Whenever I want.”
“I know you can.” Natasha tried to laugh. The sound was flat around the edges, dull as an old blade.
“I think the more important question is: did you just laugh at my Ghostbusters reference? And if so, who are you, and what did you do with Agent Romanoff?”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Do you think you’re funny, Barton?”
“Only on the days that end with ‘Y’,” he said, and she laughed again. This time, it was a little sharper. A little more real.
Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand. She turned her palm up, weaving their fingers together. He moved closer, and she tilted her head up, watching him. She saw herself reflected in his eyes. “Do you think there’s a chance?” he asked. His voice was soft. A gentle breeze could blow it away.
“For us?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
He blinked. “For all of us. For the people that faded. You think we can get them back?”
She licked her lips, stalling. “I don’t know. You want me to be honest, Clint? I have no idea.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. There was a storm in his eyes—conflict rolling, thunderclouds ready to burst. “Thanks, Nat. For being here.”
The storm in him washed through her, adrenaline flooding her veins. “Always,” she said. The lie fell heavy from her tongue.
. . . . . .
“Without your shield,” Shuri said, dodging a kick aimed directly at her chest, “you aren’t nearly as intimidating.”
Steve swung again. He missed, and this time Shuri had the distinct impression he’d done it on purpose. “I left the shield behind for a reason,” Steve insisted. He took a step back, rubbing a row of cat-like scratches on his forearm. For a moment, Shuri was afraid she’d accidentally hurt him. But then she remembered what Okoye had told her about Steve’s attempt to comfort the talking raccoon—Rocket, she thought his name was—while Rocket was fixing one of the downed Wakandan Daggers. Okoye, who had found out that Rocket was a talented mechanic, had put him to work at once. Unfortunately, no one had warned Steve (kind, empathetic Steve, who would rather die than ignore someone in need) that Rocket’s grief, anger, and hopelessness had bottled up and formed a perfect storm of teeth and claws. He didn’t need comfort, Rocket had insisted. He needed his friends—his family—back.
Shuri knew exactly how he felt.
“You should get a rabies shot.” Shuri jerked her chin at the scratches. She inhaled deeply, savoring the way the fabric of the new suit filtered out extra oxygen, flooding her lungs and heightening her brain power. It was a rush, wild and high and heady. “I’ve heard raccoons can carry all kinds of diseases.” She said it jokingly, but he took her seriously.
“You might be right. Y’know…” he said thoughtfully, rubbing the scratches. They’d already half-healed; it had been less than an hour since the incident. “…I don’t think I’ve gotten any shots since 1942.”
Shuri straightened up. “You don’t need shots,” she said, stating what should be obvious. “Not anymore.” For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about him, or about herself. Inside the suit, she felt alive. Invincible, untouchable. Although she’d never fought like her brother, she knew how to hold her own. She’d taken most of the hits Steve dished out (or the ones he’d accidentally landed, at least) and so far, she was unscathed. Steve, on the other hand, was sporting at least two fist-sized bruises on his stomach and solar plexus, and another on his shin. Sure, that had been a bit of a low blow, Shuri thought, but all’s fair in love and war.
Steve pulled his sleeve down over the scratches. He shrugged his massive shoulders, shaking his head. “How much longer do you want to do this?” She read the subtext in his words: are you okay, or do you need to take another breather?
“Last time we took a break,” Shuri said, falling back into a crouch, “you wandered off and got mauled by a talking raccoon. I think it’s in your best interest to stick with me. At least my claws don’t break the skin.”
Steve laughed. He ran a hand through his long, somewhat matted blonde hair. “If you insist,” he said, and fell into a fighting stance. Fists up, thumbs laid across his curled fingers. Ready to dance or die.
They’d just fallen back into a ritual of slashes, kicks, and punches when Okoye strode into the room. She saluted. “My Princess.” She addressed Shuri in Xhosa, ignoring Steve completely. “There are three outsiders requesting access to our runway in seven hours. Should I let them through the shields?”
“General.” Shuri reached up and pulled off her mask, then returned the salute. She blinked, readjusting to the overly-bright overhead lights. She frowned. “What kind of outsiders?”
“One of them is Colonel James Rhodes, who fought with us against Thanos,” Okoye replied. She held herself like a fire-hardened spear, strong and upright. Shuri noticed the way her gaze lingered on the lines of Shuri’s new suit. The General’s mouth tilted into a wary frown. “The others are unknown to me.”
Shuri sighed. She turned to Steve. Switching back to English, she said, “Sorry, Captain Rogers, but we’ll have to finish this another time.” She reattached the mask to the neckline of the suit. It fell limp around her shoulders. “Duty calls.”
“No problem.” Steve’s smile was strained. Forced. He gave a little half-wave, awkward and out of place, as Okoye strode gracefully back out of the room. “Thanks for the workout. I needed that.”
As she followed Okoye, Shuri threw a mischievous smile over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “You really did.”
Steve huffed a laugh. The door slid shut behind her, and she turned to face the day ahead.