asthehawkflies | [#003] {Violence for fun and profit} Action/Video

[It's a routine they indulge in whenever they're in the same place for more than a couple of days. This seems like a good enough time to pick it back up, test each other a little, and they claim one of the rooms in the Battle Dome, equipping it with mats and padded walls because while the simulation won't allow them to get really hurt by weapons, Clint isn't sure that it can make getting slammed to the ground any less painful.]

Ready, Tasha?

[He's grinning, as much a mask to hide his intentions as her blank expression. They take up position on the mats opposite each other, and there's no bowing, no politeness, just stillness.

He strikes first, a punch that she blocks, returns with a blow of her own, and then they're fighting in earnest. It's vicious, both of them making use of every move at their disposal, a brutal mix of martial arts and outright brawling, dirty tricks and all.

A throw sends Clint sprawling, hitting the bench where they'd left their stuff, and his journal falls open, starting to record the rest of the fight. To anyone not familiar with them, it does look like they're genuinely trying to kill each other. Neither of them really believe in pulling their punches and they're eerily silent while they fight, neither of them making any noise besides grunts of exertion.

They seemed evenly matched for the most part, Clint's size and strength well matched by Natasha's speed and agility and the training she'd undertaken since childhood. Eventually though, one of them comes out on top, and it's Clint who ends up floored and winded, laid out on his back, Natasha above him, pinning him down and her elbow pressed against his throat.

He groans softly, and then smiles.]

I yield.

[OOC: Responses will be answered by Clint, or Natasha, or more likely, both.]

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[Oh, whoops, something has clearly been lost in translation. Transmission. Whichever. Jack lifts his hands in symbolic surrender, grinning a little nervously.]

Easy, easy, no offence intended. She seems like a perfectly lovely person, and a very talented- ah. Agent? Is she an Agent as well?

[He relaxes, a little.]

Yeah, she's an Agent. She's my partner where we work. When we're not on other sides of the globe anyway.

By that you mean that there are poor souls who have faced both of you at once? [It's entirely a rhetorical question, and Jack looks already pleased with the anticipated answer.] I'd pity them more if I didn't know your job description.

Oh, you bet. Not that they're in any position to be telling tales.

[He smiles slightly.]

You really don't know much about it.

Other than that it leaves you in remarkable shape, no. Not really.

[Jack makes the admission without shame, returning the small smile with one of his own. The reminder sobers him, a bit.]

You've told me bits that seem to indicate government work, and a certain international-man-of-mystery air. But that doesn't really amount to knowing very much, does it.

Always nice to be appreciated. I work out a lot.

Well, that depends entirely on what you think government man of mystery work entails.

Now if every no-account radio man knew that, Agent Barton, how mysterious would it be?

[Maybe Jack should be taking this more seriously, but he doesn't want to. He has enough of conspiracy theories and mistrust and reverse psychology where he comes from. He isn't going to pull that into his life here, not before he has to.]

Very true. For all you know I could be holding the keys to Area 51 and on first name terms with aliens.

[Only half a lie. Fury had the keys. Clint had just borrowed them.]

Oh, I hope not. Eugene would be hurt if he thought you were keeping anything that delightfully bizarre from him.

Well, maybe not first name terms just yet.

[He hadn't officially met Thor after all, and Loki was only being called by his first name because 'that bastard' wasn't permissible in polite company.]

And your friend? Does she work in the alien division as well? Lizardmen? Strictly Illuminati?

[It was a sign of the sad state of his life that he had to actually stop to consider that.]

Not sure if it really counted as a lizard... it is big and green and angry though.

Something tells me this conversation will only become more bizarre if I speculate upon this mystery creature's possible ability to lay eggs. Or suckle its young.

Edited 2012-12-10 04:56 (UTC)

...

[Clint is just gonna stare while he tries to piece together the shattered remnants of his psyche. Thanks Jack.]

I never want to contemplate that mental image again, thanks.

[Jack hadn't meant to be too scarring, but Clint's response is enough to elicit a stifled laugh and a nod.]

No more scientific curiosity. I see how it is.

Yeah, I think that's a good way of putting it. It's really complicated.

Do you have any uncomplicated pursuits? Hobbies, maybe?

I shoot things. I play darts and pool sometimes. I... no, that about covers it.

I could teach you cricket, if you like. Compared to what your usual state of affairs seems to be, I imagine it would still seem very simple and reasonable.

[The terrible thing is, he's not entirely joking.]

Cricket... that's one of your weird English sports, right?

Weird-! Weird, says the man whose country doesn't even know which sport is called "football."

[Jack leans half-off the camera feed, rummaging around under the bed, then moves the journal back to prop it up against his feet. This leaves most of his upper body visible, along with a scuffed-up cricket bat which he is displaying proudly for the camera.]

Behold an instrument of culture,, sir.

[Clint grins at that, because winding people up is fun.]

What can I say? Baseball was more my game.

[He raises an eyebrow when the bat shows up in front of the camera, and laughs softly.]

So you're basically saying that your entire culture comes down to a blunt instrument? Not very subtle is it?

. . . mm. [He looks down at W.G. with a rueful smile, turning it in his hands.] You know, that might have been a good retort a few years ago. But now it's just . . . unfortunately apt. Huh.

How good are you with that thing? Nothing to say you can't hone a blunt instrument a little.

I take it you don't mean on the pitch. [His smile doesn't shrink, per se, but there's something cooler in the nostalgia, thoughtless familiarity in the way his hand takes to the worn grip tape.] Well enough against zoms, I suppose. When needs must.

[Video]

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