1964-02-14 - Rooftop Dangle
Summary: As Shuri makes her escape, Clint is in hot pursuit!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
shuri clint 

Outside in the chill of winter, small flakes of snow fall through the air. A few degrees warmer and it would be just a sprinkling of rain instead of the slowly falling crystals that disappear as soon as they light upon anything earthbound. Yet inside the tall sweeping hotel it is much much warmer.

The door to the room in The Carlyle swings open with little fanfare. A hand reaches over and flips on the switch, causing the lights to flicker to life and reveal the foyer to the rather luxurious suite that's provided usually only for visiting dignitaries or other VIPs. Stepping inside, Clint Barton twirls the keys around his index finger, causing them to jangle faintly as he moves. He carries one of her bags in his off hand as he holds the door for her, but pauses long enough for her to wander in after him.

"You've got the floor to yourself," He offers as he sets the bag down and off to the side. Straightening back up he turns to look at her, "Through there." He points, "Is the main suite. Bedroom, kitchenette, living room, even a dining room."

He starts to step past her in the other direction. "And here is where the people who work for a living tend to sleep. Second quarters, television room, and a half bath. Exciting, I know." His tone of voice is dull and laconic, clearly terribly excited to offer this bit of wisdom.

It's only then that he rounds back to her, "Now. I know yer all hankerin' to get out there and do what you're prolly planning to do. But let me offer an alternative course of action." He spreads his hands, "Get some grub, get the lay of the land, then have an objective in mind before you rush off. Alright?" For a moment he waits as if expecting an answer, but then he probably cuts her off when he adds, "Alright."


There was much silence during the travel to the Carlyle; every now and then there was a slight twitch of the eye as the rushing sounds, environments and lights proved to be a bit too much even though the cover of night. The manner of dress, and even how those people mingled together with their heads held high and shoulders that barely touch as they pass the other down the street.

It was intriguing, how a foot emerged from the darkness of the alleyway, and how others seemingly stepped over it without a care. It was a sad sight, no doubt, but people seemed to move in blind spaces even out in the open.

Perhaps that's where she was then, in that blind space, where everything else moves but the mind goes into another direction entirely. The slow walk into the VIP suite with her own bag soon placed upon the door, eyes nearly losing their focus as he begins to speak in that dull manner, and even as he gestures and talks, she walks ahead of him with a slip past and the wrap soon unraveled from her arm to toss itself right upon the bed.

"I am not a handkerchief." She states, her own tone a brand of accented blandness. "And I do not need.. grub." She sniffs a little, stepping out into the bedroom as she continues to unravel her mantle, this time about the hips as her shoes were soon kicked from beneath the thick fabric of skirts.

"I have my objective. And that is to find T'Challa. Unzip me." With those words, she turns, now fussing with the removal of her jewels.


"I dunno, I make some killer chili." He offers lightly as he steps further into the room, only after closing and locking the door of course. But then he steps behind her and she'll feel his hands upon her shoulders, then a fingertip gliding down the back to find the fold of fabric where the zipper might be hiding. It just takes a moment and then there's that faint metallic whir as he undoes the binding. "Ya know I met T'Challa once. The guy knew what he was doing. What if he's up to something and your sniffing around just screws it all up?"

As he finishes saying that, not that he necessarily believes it, he turns around and places a hand on the jam of the door, leaning with his back turned towards her should she continue the process of disrobing. "I mean, ya probably won't. But if I've ever met a guy with his sh-tuff together. It was him."


"Then your chili isn't safe." Shuri remarked, completely sure. She remains completely still as she could feel him, the heat that radiates from him palpable, her chin turning slightly to the side as her eyes only catch sight of his knuckles.. parts of his arm.. shoulder..

Yet she says nothing in offer towards T'Challa, for as she steps further into the room, she begins to disrobe. Clint could hear the insane shuffling of fabric, a slight thump of a step and a soft sigh. "It will not." Granted, it just may.

"I have specific instructions, observe and report back to our father. Nothing more until he gives word. T'Challa does not know that I am here, and the King and Queen are clear that I am to not make my presence known to him. I will be a shadow."

She was silent there after, the only sounds of her would be the padding of bare feet into the bathroom, where the running water rushes from it's faucet.


As Shuri slips away into the bathroom and assuredly the shower or the like, Clint steps away and closes the door to her part of the suite. He casually hums to himself as he wanders over towards the bag of his own that he had brought, picking it up by the canvas strap and swinging it lightly upon the couch. Another zipper makes another metallic whir as he unzips the pack, withdrawing from inside his bow, folded into its neat storage form.

For a time he casually adjusts a few knobs, shifts the tension, and then with a hiss of compressed air he snaps it to the side where the weapon locks into the fully ready position. He slips out of his jacket, tossing it aside as he binds a small bandolier over the black t-shirt on his chest, then the next step is to strap the quiver to his left thigh, adjusting the buckle with a creak of leather.

Turning back he takes a glance at the other room where Shuri had slipped from view. Then he murmurs to himself, "One hundred and eighteen, one hundred and nineteen, one twenty." At that he glances at the small electronic device on his wrist, turning one knob on it until it perhaps picks up the signal from a terribly devious tracking device.


A pass over towards the bed and a quick rush into the bathroom to turn the shower on was in order. The water runs, and with a lean against the door she listens to see if footsteps were to enter her room.

And it doesn't.

She was quick with her dressing; the black mantle slid upon her bare thighs, up and over hips, tugged upon her shoulders after her arm fits through the slots. One would think that it was leather, but it was not. The fabric itself was not delicate and could take a punch from the likes of a beast that none had ever seen. The zip within the front was tugged up to her neck, and yet her hair remained free, near frizzing in the steam that permits. With an open of the window and a look down.. way down.. Shuri's shoulders lift…

.. and out she goes!

It was an odd thing, claws immediately extended as she runs -down- the length of the building, her foot twisting partway so that she could leap back and smack her body against the side of the brick-made hotel. Her claws attach into it's surface as she slides her way down, clutching a certain part hard enough to halt her descent, her hip bumped against the surface which kicks her out into the open so that she could land upon her two feet with a crouch.

A look left and right.. she emerges from the alleyway, her black panthress hood hung behind her head as she begins to walk, blending into the crowd only slightly..

until she's gone.


Their path from the Hotel led to the north, running towards a moon whose light was dimmed by the wisps of clouds drifting past. No stars are seen during the crisp chill of this night, the glow of the city obscuring the sky with its man-made glow. Yet it was enough to cast long shadows and provide enough light for a traveler making a pilgrimage of her own.

For the man known as Clint Barton she is little more than a distant silhouette. He plays the tail loose, following along almost out of sight, relying perhaps more upon the electronic signal than his own vision, considerable it may be. As for him he never horizons himself, never presents himself as a clear outline against the light, just in case she makes a glance behind her. Perhaps she is aware of him on some level, considering the level of her senses and the way she can perceive even the subtlest of hints into a truth in the wild.

Yet when she lands upon a nearby rooftop her attention might be drawn away to the skylight that gives a view below. It's a view worthy of little remark save for the quartet of black men standing around a table. That table is covered in papers, folders, files, posters. Some of them are gesturing as they speak, while two of them have their arms folded over their chests, looking displeased with whatever is being said.


The winter wind cut a chill against her bones that she did not like. While her current mantle gives a little bit of protection from the brief sting that the wind provides. While it was not home, the concrete jungle of Harlem afforded her leaps and bounds, yet the sounds of the city, the general sights, smells, all too new for her to distinguish a heart beat, a familiar scent, the horns and the crying of children and possibly women cutting through the gaze.. it's all belonging to her. To Harlem.

So.. no. Clint wasn't noticed.

She wasn't used to the way he took his breaths, his heartbeat. His general scent. She couldn't tell him by the cadence of his walk, or the little nuances of sound that his body or lips would make..

And yet, the men below did hold a lot more interest than not, so watching of her surroundings was a rookie mistake she was destined to make, for sure. So in the dark of night, the woman with the dark skin hunkers down at a slight crouch, her eyes closing as she tries to focus, attempting to zero in on the conversation below..


The sound of their voices wasn't needed for her to understand the conversation going on below. She could read them, read the movements, the micro-tremors and expressions that lend context, all a child's game to someone with senses such as her own, though assuredly she reads for key words, key lines.

The single word 'Challa' comes through, several times as the men speak far below. Two of them seem angered by the man's… disappearance? The other two seem to speak ill of him, something about him being arrogant, being all talk. But they never met him, never knew him… and they seem dismissive.

But then there's the sound of a voice that's right there, from behind her and crouched in the shadows. "Think those two guys… are James Little, and Paul Washington." There's a faint flare as a lighter flickers to life, the ember shielded by the curve of one hand. "Though think James changed his name to Ahmed al'Qadim, and Imam bin Mohammed." There's a pause then he adds, "Though that's just from memory, so I could be wrong."


The light thump and the slight movement of clothing to shift to a bend echoes through her ears. Her eyes snap open, turning as the first syllables from the man reach her ears. And then the smell. The burnt herb within the confines of thinly wrapped paper has her nose wrinkling, a faint little cough given, and a soft snort that was soon replied with.

"How dare you follow me.." Her words were low as she slowly strafes back from the roof, retaining that crouched position, the anti-metal'd claws pressed against the ground as if she needed them there to hold her position. "I told you that your services are no longer required. This was said for your safety alone."

For the men, she was sure, would not take kindly to him being here. Most of the conversation below told of that.


"Hey, free country." Clint's response is lightly offered, the tone without judgement, but then he appends. "Mostly." But then he takes a drag on the cigarette, still shielding the end so that a sniper might not be able to get an angle on their position. Paranoid, maybe. Practical, definitely.

A few steps forwards and then he takes up a place nearby, glancing towards the skylight and then back to her. "But I can handle myself, Princess." He settles with his back against a brick chimney and watches her with that steady gaze. "Besides, what sorta chaperone would I be if I didn't have your back, right?"


There was a slight snap back, a little snort of a laugh given, it wasn't in jest. It was all purely due to sarcasm of the situation. The little walk takes her closer to the edge of the roof, her head tilted, still listening though there was a slight frown upon her face.

"It is good that you can handle yourself. But I still do not need a chaperone." She insists. "I have heard about this place. From the letters that T'Challa sent me. These people, our people, will not take kindly to a white man stalking their rooftops. They do not trust you, he says. And I wonder how that came to be, when all spaces are shared within the city." She looks back towards him. "Free country, mostly."


"Yah, true." Clint holds the cigarette lightly, then crushes the life from it under his heel before he steps forward. It's then that she might be able to get a clearer view of him, with the light from the stairwell catching him. The bandolier, the combat harness, the… bow and quiver? It definitely isn't what's held in reserve for normal operatives but it doesn't look entirely out of place on him.

"But I'm not afraid to run away if people are mean to me." His lip twitches slightly as glances towards the skylight, then back to her. "So what's the next stop on our moonlight walk about the city?" Of course he presumes he's going along, since really he kinda is… despite her wishes. Perhaps he's just offering her a chance to be polite.


It was an odd thing, that was for certain. But again, according to those letters, what T'Challa has seen was relayed with only the honesty that he could have written by his own hand. And yet, it takes a special person to follow Shuri, and even more special to track where she has gone..

A few paces back away from the edge of the roof allows her to stand to her full height, his bland tone even though the slight quip has her eyes lifting towards the ceiling. "I never said that you would be afraid." She points out, her hand lifting, the curved claw like a shined point. "I also never said that I would help you should you fall."

To the other side of the roof she went, leaning over to look towards the ground, a barrel was lit aflame and a few men were hoovering to keep themselves warm. "You are going back to your room," She murmurs, and for once, a little smile hits her lips. "..like a good little boy."


"See, I don't make a habit of fallin', unless maybe it's the occasional tumble off a wagon." His eyes shift to hers as he watches her, "And last time I checked you exactly weren't what I'd call in a place to throw around orders, Princess. Despite the privilege of your birth."

Some gravel crunches under the sole of his boot as he kneels by the skylight, "I dunno it it's exactly a good idea to leave you on your own." One eye closes as he gets a gander on the people below, "Those are not exactly nice people. A few warrants floating between them, not to mention a handful of unsolved murders. Little girls lost, wanting to do right by the oppressed people of the world, thinking they're fighting the good fight." He stands up and looks at her.

"See they have a tendency to prey on the idealistic and the naive." He gives her a look up and down once, twice. "If the shoe fits…"


One could possibly taste the ire in the air as Clint speaks. Her clawed fingers immediately drew up to grasp the hood of her costume, tugging it up and and against the nape of her neck, her eyes darting from rooftop to rooftop as her lips press into a firm, thin line. Her jaw clenches, her hand soon falling down towards her side, clawed tipped nails soon tap a little cadence out upon her thigh. She was obviously thinking.. thinking..

And with a snap, her body crouches ever so slightly as she leaps, a near ballerina's twirl given and yet her foot strikes out to try to catch him in the middle. His words didn't dignify a response, for if he went over the edge, that hood would be grasped again as she turns to walk away. "Fighting the good fight my ass.."


She'll be treated to the sight of Clint's eyes widening in surprise as she makes that smooth twirl and /slams/ her foot into his abdomen. He wraps around that kick, coughing out a _whuf_ of outrushing air as he's knocked up and back straight off the side of the roof, sending him falling into the air between buildings. It happens quickly. One moment he's there, and then the next he's gone…

But she only has enough time to realize he's slipped out of view when there's a FWIP and suddenly the impact of an arrow _smacking_ into the back of her shoulder, some mechanism closing with a whir and gnarling the fabric of her garb…

And then the cable attached to the arrow draws taut and snaps tight to pull her straight after Clint, right over the side of the building and to fall after him but a split second after.


There wouldn't have been a thought of regret after she had the time to think about it. It was do as you were told, the consequences of his ignorance would be visible from the body that possibly splattered into the fire bin below. He may have been dead, or burned to the point that he wished he was, and Shuri would have just lifted a slender shoulder as if she were saying.. 'No one listens to me!'


'Not my fault.'

Perhaps what the snap against her own clothing that took her by surprise, her hand reaching out for air as she was snapped back and toppled over the edge, her own body falling head first as she flips upright with an attempt to try to catch herself before she 'lands' wrong. It was a scrambling motion a cat would make, scratching against the air in a near panic along with kicks of her feet as well. Which was -completely- counter productive!


For a bit of time there's just the rush of air past them, the jouncing and bouncing wild shaky cam of imagery when someone is unable to get their bearings… and then suddenly their fall is arrested as the line streeeeetches and then snaps back, the line apparently having snagged a flag pole on the side of the building, serving to yo-yo the two of them right back at each other.

Operating almost purely on instinct, Clint bounces towards Shuri in an uncontrolled leap, the line attached to his belt and joining the two of them together with the flag pole serving as the fulcrum. He flashes past her and as he blurs by he lashes out with a punch and says, "Crazy chick!"


The kiss of the tips of her nails halt part of her fall against the building, sparks flying, the homeless men who previously warmed themselves near the heat of the barrel look up with shock and surprise, and soon flee there after. Thankfully they didn't flee towards the street in which the men were standing and griping, for their disappearance into the darkness was heralded with a punch from Clint as he soars like a super man into her direction.

His fist catches her cheek as she twirls, winding the elastic rope around her waist, her arms flailing out to try to still against the rocking knock against her jaw. Her body hits the wall purposely, her foot cranked upright to kick against the wall to fly in his direction in reply. Clawed hands strike out with an attempted swipe against his chest, and her reply?

"You insignificant cur!"


The wire snaps taut and loosens as the two yo-yos bounce at each other, each lashing out in time when they're within proximity. There's a flash of blood as those claws score across his chest, splitting his bandolier in twain and causing it to fall heavily down the rest of the way towards the alleyway below them.

At one point he leads with a knee aiming for her abdomen as he counters another slash, "Spoiled brat!" as he bounces off of the wall and kicks against it with one foot. His technique isn't as graceful as her, but he's no slouch on effort.

Yet as they continue to take their swings the line begins to tighten and tighten, their arcs of swings getting shorter, faster, until after one particularly palpable hit they're sent spinning around each other in a short orbit until suddenly they end up /smacking/ into each other hard, chest to chest with the line wrapping rather tightly, painfully around their arms and their chests, leaving them bound there…


With him breathing hard against her chest and then commenting with no small amount of vitriol. "Good job, /princess/." He says that last word with absolute venom.


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