All he could see was dark.
The room felt cold, metallic even. It had a strange tinge to it, like something would come any moment and shoot him in the head. It left a bad taste in his mouth. A rag covered his eyes, scratchy and woolen, and his hands were bound in zip ties. They were extremely uncomfortable, the plastic biting into his wrists.
He shifted. His ribs stuck him in the gut. At least two had been broken in the struggle to get him there. The agent who had shot his chest had hit exactly on target; just a smidge under between the heart and the lung. That hurt too. Everything hurt. Even breathing hurt, the pressure on his lungs increasing with every inhale he took.
Do it for him.
A door slammed open and in walked a pair of heels, snapping across the concrete floor. He felt his leg bounce up and down, a nervous twitch that came with the job. The female was close, and he could sense her. Perfume radiated from her tall figure, bouncy brown curls enveloping her head, with about eight pounds of hairspray to boot. He coughed.
"How's it feel? To be taken out so easily, like you were nothing?" she drawled, pressing her foot down hard on his crotch, her mouth inches from his. "Shot out of the sky, like a baby bird?"
"It sucks," he spit, causing her to step away. He tried to ignore the new pain that was slowly emerging from his groin. "Why are you doing this?"
"The boy is of great importance to us. His sister? Waste of time. But the brother... He is of real asset. Isn't he your lover?"
"Not anymore," he snapped, a facade of annoyance and determination settling on his face. "Can't have that in this line of work."
Lies.
"That's fair," the lady smiled, dazzling white teeth shining under the one fluorescent bulb that lit the 20 foot space. "You'd take me, though?"
"Depends," he smirked. "Are you willing to let your guard down enough?"
"I like your attitude," she whispered, suddenly right by his ear. She traced a long fingernail against the side of his cheek. "What a sad old man you are," she frowned. "Beaten and weary and oh so confused. You just want answers. You just want safety for him. But you failed in getting it. A miracle you're still alive. But you're more useful to us breathing than not. I don't know why we didn't recruit you before S.H.I.E.L.D. did."
The man in the chair suddenly kissed her, making her snap out of her rude streak and drop her guard for a split second. He knew it. She had a weakness.
That weakness was him.
"Trust me yet?" he muttered, voice smooth and sultry. If he imagined she was Pietro, it wasn't too hard, especially with the blindfold. He tried to pretend he couldn't feel the lipstick smudges on his stubble.
"Maybe, maybe not," she exclaimed, her vicious exterior immediately snapping back into place.
"What day is it?"
"It's the 8th of December," she said, acting oblivious to why he wanted to know. She knew exactly why.
One week.
One week of his boyfriend not knowing. One week of his boyfriend dying on his own. One week of completely shattering his well being.
One week.
"You'll be back in time for Christmas, sweetie," she grinned, slipping a laugh through her teeth. "You'll see him soon enough."
She left, her heels clicking away, the metal bolts setting into place when she shut the door.
He loosened his muscles. Rule #1 of being bound: flex as hard as you can, because the littlest amount of room can cause a world of difference.
Once the zip tie was undone (he somehow managed to get his arms around to his teeth, in which he bit through the plastic after a few hours of work), he stood, testing his mobility. He unwrapped the ropes around his ankles, taking the bonds with him. They could be used to gag anybody needed to keep silent, and he could use it as a weapon.
The code on the door had 7 numbers, and the only way he guessed them was by the amounts of heat he could feel coming off of them from the woman's touch.
He silently vowed to thank Fury for the brutal year of sensitivity training.
The door slid open, and he cringed at the scrape it made. It opened into a hall, shiny and white, with ceramic tiles that glistened with polish. Metal rungs lead up to the air duct grid in the ceiling, and he decided that was his best route.
First mission, get his bow.
It was a rough climb through the vents, but he managed to reach the weapons room undetected. 4 men were guarding the quiver, and another 3 with the bow. He would have to take them out if he wanted to succeed.
With a quick snap of the rope, he had the camera that served as a security watch in his reach. He yanked back, ripping it from the wall. It made a vicious crunching sound that even he could hear. The person in the security room would notice the camera had gone offline, so he had to move fast.
Faster than the 7 bullets that were streaming at him.
He dashed back behind the metal, listening to them bounce of the steel. He jumped down, swinging from the light. His feet connected with a chest, and one of the guards was down. A swift kick to the head knocked him out. He took care of the rest of them, his bow back in his possession and his chest in flames.
He hoped it wouldn't cave in on him.
He wheezed for a moment before swinging back up to the ducts and crawling to where he believed the data library was kept. It wouldn't be in an obvious place like in the movies; no sensible terrorist group would leave precious data in a massive storage facility with hundreds of guards. Those are usually fake setups, where the hero gets tired and the onslaught eventually kills them.
No, instead it was usually located somewhere simple, like a small safe hidden behind a painting, or kept within the back of a cupboard in the kitchen. Of course, these are all locked and have traps set up to defend them, and they were very effective.
He had one shot at this.
He dropped into what seemed to be a gym. It was silent, the blue sparring mats glistening with sweat. A session must have just ended, which gave him about 10 minutes to get in, get out, and leave the premises. He hunted in his pockets before realizing they had taken his rigs. He should've known.
'Have to do without them,' he thought.
He sprinted across the floor, aware of anything that would come flying from the walls, or the eighty guards ready to pour in and catch him off hand. He made it to the equipment closet, where he found (behind the 250 lb weights) an incision in the floorboards. He gently tapped it, stepping back quickly when spikes shot up from the space. He waited for them to lower and undid the latch.
A syringe, a chip, and a scalpel stared back at him.
Oh no.
With modern technology being what it was, many groups had managed to find a way to insert data so that it is unforgettable. They take subjects who had nothing to lose and wiped them clean, then gave them the information and sent them off to give and receive more. Almost like a robot, trained and programmed to do one thing.
He had to make a decision.
He had to make one fast.
Shouts could be heard from the outside, a mix of "he's gotten out!" and "find him!" floating through the doors. He grabbed the supplies and slipped them into his vest before notching an arrow and skittering out of the training room.
300 guards.
20 arrows.
No problem.
He stepped into the hallway and fell in line, shouting the same lines the other soldiers were. It took them a few moments to catch on that he wasn't one of them, and by that time he had taken a gun and had fallen 4 officers. He made a beeline for the outside doors, but they closed, the sensory field shutting him inside. He banged on it, trying to find a weakness.
Unfortunately, he wasn't as good at manipulating machines as he was humans.
"You tried, you really did."
A slow clapping could be heard echoing off the walls. In his confusion, he was forced into a chair, guards confiscating his weapons and emptying his quiver. The same woman from before marched up, a sarcastic swing in her step.
"You really thought you could get out of here without inserting that, did you? If you had known, the doors would've let you out, since it would have detected the data. But no, it picked up on a hostage, and it caused you to fail."
He bit his lip and tried to block out what she said, but she was speaking loud enough that every word was crystal clear, even with his busted earpiece.
"Scalpel," she snapped, the metal knife cool against her perfect hands. She walked over and drove it into his hip. He bit back a yelp.
Damn.
"You know, once you have this in you, you won't remember a thing about him besides what's on these files. It'll tear you both to shreds, which I kinda like," she said, calm, casual, like she wasn't ripping someone's life apart. "But don't worry baby, you can always come back to me."
"Never."
"We'll see."
She took the syringe and jabbed it into his neck. The liquid was inserted, and a rush of nausea coursed through him. He would have vomited if he had had anything in his stomach. All his sensory motions were starting to shut down momentarily, and everything felt blurry, slurred. Even his eyesight looked like someone had taken a wet cloth to paint and smeared it on glass.
"Once that takes effect, we'll slip this little data chip into you and set you free."
"But Captain, isn't that what we don't want-"
"Be quiet, you don't know anything," she hissed, and the soldier stepped back in his place.
The man's head lolled, his brain switching off. Ten minutes later, he was outside in the snow.
His bow and arrow laid beside him, and he tested his limbs. His breathing was good, but everything felt like needles. He wanted to go home.
What was home?
The base tower. He began his walk, hitching a ride from a taxi that was willing to take him to New York. He was silent the whole ride, lacking anything to say.
The taxi stopped hours later in front of Stark Tower, and he stepped out, giving the man what he had on him and promising he'd pay the rest later.
Bruce and Natasha had been sipping tea when they spotted a patch of red outside. Nat walked over to the window to see her bloody friend march to the door.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "He's back."
The whole team came rushing up to the window, Wanda leaving to bang on Pietro's door.
"Brother, please, you will want to see this."
"I already said go away!"
"Please!"
A mess of a man stepped out. Pietro was in his boxers, a nice layer of stubble coating his cheeks, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot and weary, like he hadn't slept in days. Purple moons were stamped under his eyes, and a cold aura was given off.
"What do you want?"
"He's home."
"Who? Vision? He only left two days ago."
"No, Pietro. He's home."
It suddenly dawned on him, and Pietro almost fainted. He ran as quickly as possible to the door (after being forced to put some clothes on) and flung it open.
The man with the bow stopped in his tracks, his blank gaze facing the runner's fierce one. The whole team watched from behind.
"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Pietro screamed, slapping him square across the face. "Why aren't you dead?" Tears were slipping down his cheeks and splattering on the carpet. "Why did you go? How are you here? Answer me, damn it!"
The other simply side-stepped him and entered the room.
"Pietro, calm down. We should have told you, but we didn't," Steve said, trying to comfort Pietro.
"No! No, this is so wrong, the whole team knew? What is wrong with you all? Do you see what you've done to me?! You broke me!" he screamed. He turned to the newcomer. "Please! Talk to me!"
"Your name is Pietro Maximoff. You come from Sokovia. You were transferred to the Avenger's Initiative to fight Ultron, a weapon of destruction created by Bruce Banner and Tony Stark. You have high agility and speed powers that were granted to you through experiments done by a scientist named Strucker. You are very valuable to H.Y.D.R.A.'s special task force. They wish for you to carry out a deadly mission for them, as you are the only one that can pull it off. This data chip within my hip explains the mission completely. It has been downloaded into my brain so that it cannot be removed. In this technological sequence, this transfer has wiped me of any prior knowledge to other beings that were once close to me. I apologize, but I do not recognize you as anyone other than the target for a terrorist group. Any prior emotional connections have been erased."
With those words, the world shattered.
Pietro stood, quietly, not making a sound. When he finally looked up, anyone could plainly see the hurt in his eyes.
"So," he said to Steve. "He faked his death so that he could infiltrate a base that had info about me, got that info, was forced to have his memory wiped, and now he doesn't remember me?"
Steve nodded, a solemn look on his face. "I'm so sorry, Pietro. Banner can see if he can reverse the chemical bioengineering, but it will be quite a while. Just remember that he did it for you."
The reason he hadn't reacted to Pietro's meltdown was because he simply did not know him. All the pain and struggles they had been through. Those precious moments of happiness. Gone, vanished, a fresh slate.
He had no clue who Pietro was asides from the data. He had no recollection of any past together.
All this, just to gather information that could possibly save him. All this strife the other had gone through, all the damage he had endured was because he wanted to save him.
Clint Barton had been wiped protecting the one he loved.
Clint Barton was nothing.