1964-02-05 - Arrows, Ninjas and Boltholes
Summary: Elektra and Clint reunite when he comes to assist her with some issues the Hand is presenting her.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
elektra clint 

The third floor apartment of one Clint Barton is a rarely used thing. It serves as a home base of operations for him in between long sessions with ACT-F and pursuing what field work that comes his way. Because of that, however, the place is often a rather horrible mess despite Kate Bishop's occasional effort to add some order to his life.

It's not that he's a slob or even lives messily. It's just he's so often so damned tired when he stumbles through the door. Like tonight, he tosses his keys aside as he steps through the way. He sort of half-staggers through the hallway, ignoring the bathroom for now since he'll deal with foolish things like 'hygiene' in the morning. No, his bed beckons and he looks forward to accepting its overstuffed comfy promise what with its comforters and goose-down pillows.

So it's with a whumpf that he lands on the bed, resting his head there and not even taking off his clothes. He just lies there on his belly, taking deep breaths and almost instantly starting to drift off into sleep.


The city doesn't sound right. Usually there's a good measure of ambient noise that one can hear and not entirely recognize. Oh sure right now there's still the honk of horns occasionally and the rumble of traffic. But of the other things… the insects and animals are quiet. The air seems still… almost as if the world was holding its breath for one long pregnant pause. It's enough to niggle at the back of Clint's mind until his eyes open fully and he frowns against the white pillowcase as he utters one word.



The first hint that things were wrong was last week. It didn't take the Hand long to trace her here. So, Elektra had to move her hotel from the little motel in Hell's Kitchen she had been using to somewhere else. Midtown, somewhat nicer. A random room on a random floor in efforts to make her even harder to find. It's pure luck that she happened to be across the street from a certain Clint Barton. Sometimes luck is on a woman's side. She was just relaxing in fro the night when her own instincts keyed up, much as his did. She felt it just in time to grab at the knives she always kept tucked under her bed, and then ran for the stairwell. The last thing she needed was to be trapped in the hotel. At least, in a stairwell, she had them at a bottle neck point she could fight her way through.

The fight started but a handful of minutes later. Two dozen Hand spilling into the hotel, some in the stairwell, others up the side and into the halls, in efforts to pin their target in.


For a few moments, Clint argued with himself about getting up. Not his fight really. Probably. Not his deal. So someone might die. Big deal. Probably deserve it. Ninjas. Hate those guys. But it's a short discussion in the recesses of his mind. Just a short bit of annoyance at the edge of his thought processes that gives him a single moment of hesitation.

But then he's up, pushing himself up from the bed and scowling to himself. Rolling off the side of his bed he hits the ground with both boots with a thump, even as he's reaching over his shoulder and pulling his jacket off as quickly as he can. With a rustle of leather he gets himself free, jeans and a t-shirt and work boots complete his ensemble. That is until he reaches the window and snags the go-bag that's sitting there. He unzips it smoothly even as he shoulders open the window. A hop over the ledge and he's already shouldering on the quiver of arrows and the gear pack.

It's only after the abrupt climb of several flights of stairs on the fire escape that he reaches the rooftop, hunkers down the hide his silhouette, and then effortlessly detaches the collapsed bow from beside the quiver. A faint mechanic whir and it extends to its full length… and he's ready.


There aren't *that* many ninjas, comparatively to other times. A little over two dozen. Maybe 30 total? They were only looking for one woman and the Hand had several other matters to handle in New York and other places. So, it was a small force. Outside the hotel, in Clint's range, there's about ten left, but they are quickly moving into the stairwell from the roof door of the hotel. None are coming out right now. That might be a good sign. If he wishes to take some down, he's quickly losing targets, but they aren't expecting him at all and he could quickly remove some numbers.

Meanwhile, inside the stairwell, Elektra was quickly getting herself out numbered. In nothing but her black night down, those long knives in hand, she's keeping her back against the wall as she takes a step at a time downwards, cutting down Ninjas on both sides of her as she goes. The motions are slow, as she can't ever leave her back exposed, but she's managing not to let them get in her guard. Over all. A few light cuts on her forearms now, she's still taken down half a dozen and is still moving forward. It was easier when she had some armor. Easier when she hadn't been asleep 20 minutes ago.


If it were any normal situation, it's pretty feasible Clint would take some time to get the measure of it. But he is familiar with the cultists from the clan. They've crossed his path before. Suddenly he's up and moving forward, his eyes sweeping the situation, the play of that faint light on those animate shadows. They are martial artists trained their entire lives on the art of the kill, ones who were born to the night and who kill with silence.

Yet, to him, they are just targets.

A trio of arrows are drawn all in one smooth motion from the quiver, separated by fingertips as he draws, nocks, shoots, so quickly in succession even while he's running across the rooftop to close that distance. Once the last one is fired, timed perfectly with him running out of rooftop, he leaps across the distance and draws another to fire when he lands.

The arrow is cut with the whir/pffft of arrows striking and slicing through the air. Only a handful of seconds, yet they are already engaged and battle is upon them.


No sound. No shock, complaints, or anger that someone else has come into their fight. The Hand are not like that. Some say their tongues are cut out, but that is probably just rumor. Some of them turn to attack, trying to stop the man who has already downed half a dozen of their fellows, but the rest just spill into the stairwell, their target more important than this intruder. One moves to shut the door hard behind, hopefully locking CLint out in the process.

Elektra, meanwhile, isn't bothering being quiet. She wasn't Hand, not any longer, and this was a hell of a frustrating night. She swears rather loudly in Greek, the sound echoing up the staircase to the top where Clint might actually hear a distant whisper of it as she grunts, taking a good slice to her shoulder. Enough to cut away one strap of her night gown. At least it was still holding, on covering what it needed, but just. This would be ridiculous and the opening of a bad movie if it weren't quite so dangerous. She slices another Ninja straight throught he stomach and up, spraying the wall with viscera before she spins to attack the next one below her.


The unfortunate few in their black PJs are left outside the door to try and halt or slow down Clint Barton, who unfortunately has no respect for the secret techniques of the East. He's rolling across the rooftop and coming back up, leaping into the air towards that door. And as he's flying up into the air, his silhouette limned by the moon behind him, he's a fan of arrows all nocked together… and fired together so that they spread in a clean strike straight at those stragglers.

He lands, rolling back to his feet and an explosive arrow is drawn while he skids on his knees, internally cursing about ruining a good pair of jeans. Once he's got the shot he lets fly, hopefully blasting apart the entrance just in time for him to leap through while the smoke, shock, and debris gives him surprise.


The sound of a small explosion up the stairwell makes Elektra's eyes jerk up. What in hell? That much noise was NOT the MO of the Hand, but she didn't even want to have hope that someone was actually coming to HELP her. Elektra was alone, if the last half a decade taught her anything it was that she was entirely alone. Elektra hisses out another curse as one almost gets in her guard fully, her hand jerking back, catching the knife on the guard of her long, stylized blades and tossing it away a second before it would have slipped between her ribs. She couldn't afford the distraction.

Up the stairs, another few of the Hand have turned back from dashing after her to try and stop the fool who was planning on coming through that exploded door. The lock had no luck in compare to Clint's explosive arrows, it wasn't made for this sort of fight. So the door swung open and let him down, but now he's in a far smaller space with poor sight lines for shooting, and four more Ninjas running up at him.


And suddenly it's all close combat, messy, vicious close combat that is not exactly his forte… but then again he's no slouch either.

Coming up out of that roll, Clint slams a shoulder into the nearest ninja that might still be reeling from the abrupt hammer of shockwave caused by the explosive arrow. The shoulder's just enough to knock the man back and give Clint time to plant the heavy combat knife into the man's pectoral and /pin/ him to the wall all the while he's still moving forwards, leaving the incapacitated ninja behind him.

There's the sound of steel upon steel as the archer uses his reinforced bow to parry the strike of a sword, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it to throw him _hard_ over the side of the railing and letting him fall down… down down… past Elektra even.

But then there's a flicker of movement, a flash of blades and some small spatter of blood upon the wall as Clint's too slow to catch the latest parry needed. He staggers back, lashing out with a heavy boot to get some space.


At least they are now fighting almost together. Elektra blinks as the tough body of Clint Barton goes practically flying past her. She swears she could recognize him, but there wasn't time to focus. She just needed to keep fighting. But with that other frame near her, keeping enemies off her back from the bottom, she can focus on the half dozen enemies above her. She's almost getting exhausted. Almost. But she has to keep fighting, quickly dispatching the enemies that are finally beginning to slow down.

Clint was not their ultimate goal, so while two more break off to try and stop him, the Hand which have come tonight are sensing the end of this and getting desperate. They try to press in faster on Elektra, taking advantage of the fact that she is focusing on the ones at the top. She grunts in a moment of pain as a blade cuts into her shoulder, but cuts them off from going any deeper with a slice to the throat, aterial spray going all across the staircase.


With that little bit of breathing room bought with the slice over his abdomen that's ruined one of his favorite shirts, Clint is able to draw a pair of arrows. One is nocked while he falls backwards onto the stairs, aiming between his knees and firing as those two ninjas charge at him. They bring their blades up as if to parry… only for the arrow to flash by them…

And explode with a burst of heavy white foam that suddenly surges to life, snaring not only them but some of the closer ninjas on the stairs. But that is only the first arrow. The second one that comes in is now with them nicely set and connected, the tazer arrow has several bodies to slam into with a triple ricochet shot that would probably make even Barney envious.


The moment that Clint buys her that lovely distraction AND putting down most of the enemies below her, Elektra is able to clean up the ninja's above in a matter of ten seconds. A dead body tumbles down the staircase, past him, before collapsing in a bloody heap on the platform below him. Then, suddenly, the entire stair well was far too quiet. Just the faint mingling of their slightly shallowed breaths, the scent of blood all around, and the faint echo of another dead body slumping to the side.

Elektra looks down towards him, breathing hard, still just barely in her dark night gown, black glossy hair down around her features, clinging to her throat and cheeks with a smatter of blood. She blinks, actually taking in the sight of him with a touch of surprise. "…Barton? What in hells are you doing here?" SHe whispers quickly, leaning down to steal a few extra weapons off of some of the bodies in front of her. But they couldn't stay here long, even as they were both actively bleeding.


Clint's answer to such a thing is to look over their handiwork, his eyes flitting from point to point. One eyebrow quirks as he considers what's passed, what the reason must have been for it, who is involved, and who these guys are. Pieces come together as he pains a mental picture and on some level he doesn't want any part of it. But then again he looks back at her as he rips off the lower half of his shirt then deadpans, "This doesn't look like Pismo Beach…"

Now wearing a half t-shirt, he starts to wrap the shredded fabric around his abdomen and tie it off, staunching the small flow of blood. He closes the distance with her, slinging the bow over his shoulder. "Making friends again, Natchios?"

"… well, it looks like Pismo Beach the second night, around 2 am… but that was just work." Elektra states with a wine dark smile, eyes flashing in the adrenaline soaked enjoyment of the fight. It felt good to be alive again, like this, neck deep in it, whether she wanted it or not. "…I didn't start it this time, to be fair." She offers a moment later, realizing he might still think she's the assassin here. She secures one more weapon at her side and then nods towards the stairs.

"…We should get moving, if you can still walk and don't need bandaids right now. This building might end up a mess of police or more of the Hand, and I'm not certain which I'd rather avoid more." She admits with a sigh, starting to move, even if she's not totally sure where to go.

"Yeah, but we finished it," Clint offers as he casually nudges at one of the fallen with the toe of his boot. He slings the bow over his shoulder, the weapon collapsing with a faint whoosh of compressed air. Hands now on his hips he looks around at the carnage then frowns, "We get to a phone I might be able to get some coverage for this, but gettin' outta dodge is prolly the right move now, yer right."

That said he moves after her, stepping forward as he gestures with a toss of his chin, "There's an ole SHIELD safe house that's prolly not bein' used right now a few blocks west. If you can make it." He starts to ascend the steps, moving back up towards the rooftop since the streets will not be friendly to them what with patrol cars assuredly on their way.

The woman across from him is hurting too. Elektra hasn't quite processed how bad the injuries are, still riding adrenaline and the high of the fight, but they aren't great. "…Let's keep moving before my brain catches up with body. I can make it." The woman states flatly, confidence (really, just a bit of arrogance) in her accented voice. Then she's moving with him up the stairs, holding one hand against the worst injury on her side, and trusting him to lead the way.

As they move, she grins a bit wider, "…You still have a very enjoyable ass to watch. Glad to see you haven't let yourself go." It's somewhat a tease, but mostly flirting, the thrill of a good fight and being alive tends to be like that for her.


The door to the rooftop stairwell is shouldered open as he leans into the door, then he shoots a glance at her sidelong with one eye scrunched up. "My eyes are up here, Natchios." But he snorts a small 'chuff' of a scoff as he shakes his head and looks away. It's almost a smile but not quite.

The next moment they emerge out onto the rooftop, greeted by the evening. The chill of the winter's wind brushing past them is bracing as they emerge, and he takes a moment to get his bearings before he turns back and nods to her. "This way, c'mon. S'gonna snow soon, best if we beat it." That said he breaks into a jog heading towards the lip of the rooftop.
"I know very well where they are, Barton. I happen to find this more enjoyable." Elektra clips out towards him, though the sidelong glance does get a flicker of her dark eyes, a grin, and a little wink. It's almost like it hasn't been years since they've ever seen each other, and that people don't die every time they are together.

But then she's stepping out onto the roof, a few bodies littering it as well. The echoes of the messy fight. She shivers against the night air, goosebumps all across her bloodied, still too bare skin. She's still in completely unsuitable clothes for this. She nods, following after him to keep her blood moving and the heat through her body, even if it makes her bleed somewhat quicker. She can keep up with every move he makes, but she's throwing a lot of trust into him, just following him where ever.

Good thing about the human body is that heavy crazy blood-pumping activity can keep someone warm even in winter. Oh certainly time would prey heavily upon someone left to the elements, but a quick jog across the rooftops should take just enough time for them to build up a good sweat before they reach the safehouse.

But first thing is first. The first leap, the first break into a run, then it all becomes a steady stream of movement and momentum turned into acrobatic maneuvers to set a good pace. It's just after they leap over an alleyway, avoiding the drop that he says over his shoulder. "Yer gonna have to fill me in on what's behind all the crazy this time." Meaning the Hand attack probably, not necessarily her crazy since that would probably take more than an evening to delve into.

"Clan rivalry? Or mebbe you skipped out on a job?"

Sure enough, both of them injured or not, Elektra can keep up with him just fine. She's not gotten soften in her retirement, not at all. In fact? She might actually be BETTER than the last time she met him, a few more years of training in her pocket, several more dangerous jobs. Her motions are more refined, conservation of movement, pure elegance and grace. She flips into a bit of a roll and comes back up on her feel a second later, continuing their jog. She's only slightly breathless.

"Mm… yes, well… As soon as we get inside. But, the short of it is that I've retired." She states simply, as casual and careless as if she was remarking on some spring weather, or a new fashion line. Like retiring from the world's most dangerous clan of Ninjas was something one did every day.


A divot of snow is kicked up as he lands on another rooftop, but then he slows from his run to a jog… and then a stroll as he moves towards an old tool shed that's perched precariously on this old apartment building's rooftop. He glances back at her as he walks, "Didn't know you retired. I mean I sorta heard somethin' on the grapevine." He offers as he moves up to the shed, reaching for the door handle to the small aluminum building.

"But I figured it was all BS, since I figured you would retire only once you were dead." But then he scritches his chin as he casually works a combination lock with one hand, flicking it back and forth through the needed steps and then yanking down on it sharply to open that aluminum door. "Well, either dead or preggers."

It's into the shadows of the shed that he moves, an old halogen light is lit with the pull of a string on the ceiling, then he starts to shove around stacks of small orange crates that fulfilled their purpose probably some time back in the forties.
"It's… complicated." Elektra mutters, just slightly breathless as they finally hit the last rooftop. That's the only indication that she might be more hurt than she cares to let on, is that her stamina is flagging far quicker than she'd prefer to admit. But they are almost there and she's not going to let him think she's weak for going down before the ends, so she remains moving towards the shed, pushing a bit of snow out of her midnight dark hair.

THen he comments about her being 'preggers' and he gets a look that COULD KILL. "No." She doesn't hiss it, but that isn't even something worth joking about. She rolls her eyes and pushes past himi nto the shed, her good arm coming up so she can push a hand back through her hair and shake some of the snow free. Her nose wrinkles at the interior, "You all have…poor taste in what a safe house should be."

"That's cuz this ain't it," He comments off-handedly as he keeps pushing a few more orange crates only to reveal a hatch in the floor that has a fine layer of dust to it. Definitely hasn't been messed with in a few years at the least. "This," He points downards at the hatch as he grabs it and yanks upwards. "Is it,"

And with a whumf of broken air seal, the door is pulled up and a few lights flicker on down in the set of rooms beneath their feet. "The combination to the lock, if you wanna leave and reset it, is 12-22-12." He drops down into the hatch and lands on the floor below them in a crouch, then straightens up and pulls a set of rungs from out of the wall, letting her descent in a little more leisurely manner.

"Technically we're in the walls between four other apartments, no way in here from the street. So yeah, not bad."

He steps away from the entrance and walks over to a panel on the wall, pulling a few switches to get some industrial fans whirring to bring fresh air into the musty place. "But beggars, choosers, all that."

"Fancy…" Elektra states, her tone a BIT too flat to actually be impressed. Yes. She's teasing, but it's still good hearted teasing. She follows him down, coughing a touch at the dust that is kicked up, but Elektra always was rather too upper crust to get down and dirty with her residences, even if it was necessary sometimes. A girl has taste.

She follows him deeper inside, finally pulling her blood-covered hand away from her side and looking down at the deep slice over her ribs. At least it wasn't a stab wound? It still was bleeding quite freely down her side. "And I am…never a beggar, Clint Barton. You need to learn to have a bit more class in your… desperate times." She winks to him.

"Hey," Clint says wryly, "Some of us were born noble sprog to some high muckity muck, and some of us spent our youth runnin' around bare foot and skippin' rocks off a frog's back." Alright that's a bit of a lie, but he's always played a certain 'role' for Elektra, best to keep up that impression.

But as he moves around the place he gets it set for a tenant to dwell here for a bit. A cot's unfolded from the wall, and a few chairs are set up. He moves towards the alcove corner that passes for a restroom and pulls open the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet. He starts to fiddle with the first aid kit and then steps away. "Alright, siddown and let's get your shame tended to." For shame her letting herself get hit.


Her eyes roll a bit at his comment about being born a noble sprog, "You're too damn smart to be some back water yokel yourself, Barton… I'm onto you." She teases lightly, walking further into the room. Her nose wrinkles a bit, but it would have to do. Beggars and choosers indeed. SHe folds herself down onto the edge of one of the chairs and leans over to grab the first aid kit from him, shaking her head at the comment about shame. "You're looking a little nicked up yourself. Don't be slinging any arrows that could come straight back at you. We're both getting old and slow." She mutters. She then falls into companiable silence as they both go to tending to their wounds…


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License