Inheritance of ash

Fault Lines

One agent tried to rush him from the side. Without breaking stride, Clint drove his bow into the man's chest, knocking the wind out of him before firing another arrow point-blank at the next one's thigh.

He was sweating, heart pounding — but he never missed. Not when his kid was in the line of fire.

Gradually, the outside cleared enough for the remaining fighters to push toward the entrance. Steve, Peter, and Pietro slipped inside next, their movements a blur of coordination — shield strikes, webs, and blinding speed cutting down resistance in seconds.

Natasha, Wanda, and Vicky followed, and soon the whole team was pressing inward, cutting through Hydra's defenses. The corridors echoed with every shout, blast, and crash of combat.

"Hostages confirmed," Steve's voice came through comms. "We're securing—"

The rest was static.

Then—

BOOM.

The explosion ripped through the facility. Light, heat, and noise swallowed the world in an instant.

Vicky barely had time to register the shockwave before everything went black.

⸻

Kate's first sensation was weight.
Something heavy, cold, and unyielding pressed against her leg, pinning her to the ground. She wasn't sure if it was a slab of wall, part of the ceiling, or... hell, it could have been a desk for all she knew. Her head throbbed in dull, insistent waves, and her ears rang like she'd stuck her head inside a church bell mid-peal.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dark haze from her vision. The air was thick—dust hanging in it like fog, curling into her lungs when she coughed.

How long had she been out? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? There was no way to tell.

Then it hit her—Clint.
Her mentor, her partner in this mess, the closest thing she had to a father, had been right next to her before everything went black.

Her voice rasped, "Clint?" No answer.
She tried again, louder this time, "Clint!" Her voice cracked at the edges.

The third time, she shouted, panic creeping in like water filling a sinking boat. "Clint!"

Finally—faintly, somewhere through the rubble and haze—
"Kate!"
Her lungs released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She tried to push herself up, but her leg was firmly stuck under the debris. Pain shot up her thigh when she shifted. She bit down a groan, blinking away the black spots swarming her vision.

Then Clint was there—half-shadow, half-silhouette through the dust—dropping to his knees beside her. His hands went immediately to the slab on her leg, prying, grunting, ignoring the blood running from his shoulder. It wasn't from the explosion. No—gunshot. She could see the way his jacket was ripped, the dark stain spreading.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he gave her a look. Don't. And she didn't.

With one sharp heave, he pulled the debris off and hooked an arm under hers, hauling her upright. Her leg screamed in protest, but she forced it to hold her weight.

"You good?" Clint asked.

"Manageable," she said, which wasn't entirely a lie.

He tried the comms.
"Cap? Romanoff? Anyone?"
Static. Just static.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

Kate's heart was pounding faster now. If no one was answering...

She glanced around at the smoke-filled hallway, chunks of ceiling and wall littering the ground. "We have to find the others."