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Clint sets up to kneel, his hands cupped automatically to give his running counterpart a leg up toward the vent, wasting as little time as possible to get inside.
And watches with flat, expressionless non-amusement as Kitty runs to him…then through, phasing through the wall and into the building proper.
Well. Okay.
Clint's left crouched there like an idiot for a beat. Barton, you rube, you knew she could get in on her own. Huffing a breath, the former carnie trash mutters under his breath something that comes across in comms like '…dumbass…ya go…okay' while he backs up several paces, staring up the side of the building while he sizes up the distance to the grate. See Clint run. See Clint jump. See Clint give gravity the middle finger and bounce up the sheer concrete wall, catching the ledge above him with one hand. See Clint ignore his nose as he smashes it against the concrete and heft himself up and over with a disarming lightness.
"Okay, I get it. No chivalry bullshit. You got me." He rumbles low as he makes quick work of the vent cover and FWOOP! You got a BAD infestation, guys. You got Hawkeyes in your vents and Shadowcats in your walls. Better call Terminix. "In."
Kitty's voice crackled on comms "Sorry…Okay i'm dropping into the space. There's a few floors. It looks like it goes at least 8 stories down. Whatever we're looking for from our intel says there should be a containment room. I'll see if I can find us a map."
The ventilation up top seemed to be standard. It was everything Clint could come to love and expect: Terrible weather conditions, shitty positioning, and good space for him to brace himself on the inside of the air shaft to get in. One of these was more important than the other two. Thankfully due to prior missions, and this not being Clint's first rodeo he could garnish a general layout once he shimmied down inside that the layout was fairly cookie cutter to other bunkers withhte exception of a couple offices moved.
This meant that while there were 8 floors down he very well may only need to go to 5 which is where they, Hydra, tended to keep things like special projects and also their electrical floor.
Comms sputtered and Leo's voice crackeld on, "Okay Shadowcat knocked out camera feed so you can drop floors. Now's your window. to finish moving." So much aluminum.
For now Fitz was monitoring comms to keep their channel hidden. THis was not going to keep anyone from being over heard if they started speaking into those comms, but the signal was at least hidden. Kitty went to find the computer mainframe as planned.
This left Clint to get down to the 5th Floor n a base covered in Hydra agents who at least didn't know he was there…for now… it was something. Get the weapon unlocked and either secured for SHIELD or permanently decommissioned.
You know what else didn't help? The cold!
Clint was armed with a few new options. The least of which were one small range EMP that lasted a minute or so and a large one with a wider range but shorter timer on it. Right!
On the other side of the grate where Clint finally crawled to he could hear two people speaking. It was in Russian and clearly in tone of "Vasili Ykaterinovich is clearly the superior musician of all time. What is this Frankie Valley you speak of?" tone.
So. Much. Aluminum.
Clint drops down the pipe and immediately skids to a halt with his feet on either side of the shaft as he puts the cap back on the vent. Yeah. Much less cool than walking through walls. Relaxing his limbs just enough to be sent on a controlled slide down the aluminum tube in a quiet 'shrush' of sound until he comes to a T and stops before hitting the cross and doing something insane like busting through a ceiling.
Crawling is pretty damn undignified as well, but, eh, whatever. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, all the way to the grate. Hawkeye peers down at the people incorrectly assessing music.
Reds. Psht.
Okay, so options are:
Crawl through the venting system all the way to the fifth subbasedment like a dust bunny — seriously, clean your vents.
Oooorrr…
Clint waits until one of the subjects walks under the vent grate and with a brief warning squeak of metal on metal is the precursor to 250 lbs of blond moron falling flat on top of one of the Russians, grate first.
What? He said the cameras were out.
The camera were out. As out as the Red with the coffee cup that was smashed, like his body, under the grate and 250 pounds of USDA choice American Muscle.
The agent was looking over their shoulder at the metal door in the room he was in, not up. Why don't they ever look up? It's because they're not allowed to see good movies that teach you: always look up.
Hitting the ground and dude was hard, and though the sound might attract attention. It was the static of Fitz' voice in Clint's ear that crackled. "Making friends? Look around. Can you see where you are?"
A voice cut in on the line that was Kitty's "I'm in the control room. There's no directory. This might take me a bit. It looks like the weapon is housed in Floor 5 bay 23."
Fitz answered, "That a three following a two or a two that preceeds a three?"
"Not the time to be cute. Okay I'm going to see if I can find release controls for the system. There's a lot of code here I've not seen before and if we can remove the weapon without damaging it? Optimal."
"Hawkeye, fifty-three seconds until camera are back" came Fitz' voice again sobering. He was trying to stay calm. it's hard when your team, your friends, are isolated in hostile territory.
Around the room there are filed and papers. There's also what looks to be a very largeish pressure chamber of sorts that looks almost big enough for a person, but not quite. It might be some nature of medical bay? Not uncommon though it's not much more than a triage clinic. The person Clint dropped in on has a lab coat and a sidearm on them. A large computer takes up one wall of the room. A couple doors are found at a glance: 1 to the hall, and another into a larger lab area perhaps? The warehouse area maybe? A closet even? Hard to tell with it closed. A new door is also notable in the ceiling, courtesy of one Clink Barton.
Bet you $10 they won't even thank him for the renovation or the duct cleaning. So ungrateful Hydra is.
"With friends like me…" Clint mutters to himself as he climbs down off of the guy, crunching on the remains of his coffee cup beneath one combat boot. "Aw, Coffee." No time to mourn his first mistress now. The direction of the other two people draws his attention up. Then back to the unconscious man.
Oh right. Uh, body. Well! So much for thinking ahead.
First things first!
He yanks the coat off the dude. And the sidearm. And looks for any keycards. And hefts the guy up. And up. And…up. Aaaaaand into the vent. Damnit Barton. Well he doesn't do all those upside down push ups for nothing.
"Are you /flirting/?" He grunts, flat and still somehow incredulous. "You're terrible at this." And this coming from the guy who is stuffing a body in a vent over his head and tossing the vent grate behind the pressure chamber. "Well, at least I dropped into the med bay. I think. On the move." Shuffling the coat on. It's not a /great/ disguise but at a glance maybe. Maybe. "Computer lab maybe. Two points of entry."
Eenie meenie… he opens the mystery door because why the hell not? It's opposite from the direction of the other two, so his best chance.
Fitz says, "I, y- no. Look mission. Shadowcat's correct, Hawkeye this is no time for funny." Sure Fitzy, sure. "Aaaaand cameras are back on. Remember you have short and wide range EMP in you. Use those arrowheads sparingly. THey're one use. I can't get a readout of the bunker here."
Kitty's voice cut in, "Okay I'm working on access to system permissios."
So at least Kitty was making progress on the main computer system. Good. Coms were still up and presumably private. Also good. That left Clint hopefully not terribly far from the weapon somewhere on this floor. All was quiet for now.
Helps when the homeowner isn't aware you dropped in yet!
The body was dead weight, but at least the man was manageable for the world's arguably greatest archer. We welcome all takers to challenge him on this. The only drawback to teh lab coat was it was a bit tight across the back but it'd pass.
The door to the side was…passcoded. Because of course it was. Smart thinking on Clint's part to boost the technician's ID proved… useful!
It beeped.
It clicked.
It unlocked.
On the other side of the door was a hallway with what looked like hazmat gear hanging in lockers and another pass coded door at the far end of the hall past the cubbies with the protective gear. Visible in the frosted glass at the far end is what looked to be an isolated airlock to decontaminate it. Sprinkler heads were visible. Must be getting closer. On the other side of the airlock seemed to be an open room with concrete, metal grating, and subway tiling.
Hydra really loved their decorating motif. There was even a large inspirational Hydra logo mural on the flat wall of the hallway. Oh joy.
Hail Propaganda Monster.
"
"Have you met me?" Clint speaks under his breath in counter, smirking wryly in victory as the locked door yields access. "Yeah, I've conveniently forgot about all the cool stuff I have to play with. Seriously, Fitz. It's like we're strangers."
He kept walking, but at a relaxed pace. Quickly assessing the space to decide what would look natural and casual, not 'lost'. "Lab opens to some kind of clean room prep station. Hazmat. Airlock. Ugly squid on the wall. Their designer seriously needs a broader portfolio." He licks his lips and eyeballs the airlock and the suits. "So, what kind of weapon was this, again?" Already getting worried about little things like, oh, radiation or whatever.
"Hawkeye, I trust you I just…really wan to see us walk out. Okay the suits? Can you tell me if they have any of the following that you can identify…" He went into a short description trying to determine if the suit was protect against gas, radiation, or chemical, or even shrapnel exposure.
What question about the weapon got a pause. A long pause and Fitz-Mittens' voice crackled in "The weapon is tentatively volatile. Unclear if it is radioactive. Ummmm a bio-weapon seems closest classification. It's not entirely understood at this time." There was hesitation there but crazy shit was hard to classify. Also bad news wasn't great but necessary information was kind of important to have.
Well, the suits looked as if they seemed to fit that description.
Clint reports back on the suits with slow, watchful glances to the door as he pokes around one, trying not to look like he's assessing it, and perhaps just here to inspect before crawling into one. Which is, of course, exactly what he's about to do anyway. He groans into his comm, "Sounds like my ex-girlfriend." And starts shuffling it up into one of the things.
His quiver doesn't fit inside the suit, so he takes it off and instead pockets a couple arrowheads. Covering it up with the labcoat and hanging it on the hook the hazmat suit formerly hung on, trying for as normal as possible, Barton sighs over leaving his shit behind. Still has the gun. Still has small projectiles. Still him. Not like he's helpless here.
"How's it going over there, Shadowcat?" If he was getting close, they'd have to resync soon.
Well. This is a stupid idea.
Kitty's voice came on over the channels, "I found the airlock in the system. I can shut it off for you for quiet entry let me know when you are ready." He waited for an all clear and reported, "3…2…Go now." She was passionate about her causes but reliably technically minded which seemed to be supporting them well.
The airlock opened and there was inside a large containment tank with amber glass on it making the contents difficult to see. Right now there was some person in the room running what looked to be a standard check looking at the computer and also a clipboard checking the consistency from one to the other. They were also wearing a restrictive suit.
The other Hydra Agent looked up not seeing much but the visor and the slot where a bit of face came through the suit's visor. He greeted in… Russian of course. What Clint had the advantage on was being able to read body language telling him this person assumed Clint-Figure to be a- familiar, b- a Russian in the know, c- someone they are trying to impress with their progress. Ah! He was mistaking Clint as a senior technician.
The mic feed was still open and Kitty's voice said "Ask them when." Sheeee was assuming Clint spoke Russian at all.
Fitz added quickly, "Say 'Da' and point. He's asking if you want to see the weapon and he recent testing. Shadowcat, you're going to want to be ready to get out of where you are really quick after shutting down the device."
It'd be a lie to say that when Clint Barton enters a room, everyone takes notice. Sometimes this is true. He has an unwavering confidence that pulls certain personalities to him and an aura which demands attention when he flexes it. Other times he can slip in like a shadow. But when you're wearing a bulky, enormous hazmat suit, the latter is out of the question.
Clint pulls up every nuance of casual belonging that he can muster as he enters the room, jerking his chin up at the sole other person. The helmet doesn't move.
A casual gesture of 'go ahead' is coupled with a shift of his weight, Clint shoots for the casual arrogance of someone who does this sort of thing every day. "Da," counting on the muffling of his helmet to correct his accent in a single syllable.
Show and tell!
For now the ruse held. First the enthusiastic scientist showed Totally-not-Agent-Barton a chart with graphs spanning a series of diagnostic tests. A small crackle of Fitz's voice in Clint's ear assured, "Got it. He's asking for your approval and wants… to know if you want to see? I don't know if he means a life fire or what honestly." This was on Clint.
The body language of the lab assistant, Grodszinskiy, seemed to suggest he didn't suspect otherwise. Kitty's voice chimed in lint's ear, "Ready for decoupling when we are ready"
Grodszinskiy was walking to where a large saferoom sat in the middle of the room. The cube was maybe 5' x 7' and about not 7' tall. A ventilation pipe came out of the top that went to some large vat that sat in the back of the room.
Initial assessment reads: Perhaps safety, climate control, or a vacuum as some sort of elaborate fire safety measure. The shields on the 'cube' itself look like small blast doors. A computer (presumably the one Kitty was remote hacked into) was attached to a station on the outside of the 'blast cube' that had one door.
Clint held silent for once in his life, following in the steps of the assistant, he nods none the less, as casually attentive as can be. At least he doesn't have to fake his interest in the, eh, subject? Weapon? Whatever. This is less fun when you don't know the language, damnit. No glib remarks, now!
Clint strolled counter clockwise around the box, looking for anything going into the box or out aside from that pipe out the top to the vat. Vat of what? Sheesh he finishes his stalking rotation, the hairs on the back of his neck raising for some reason. Clint nods his allowance to the eager assistance.
The technician walked around and plugged in his badge as an access card. He punched a series of buttons in and this caused a number of things to occur.
Inside the hazmat suit hearing was muffled and the suit it self crinkled a bit. It was not impossible but it was challenging. It's hard to tell what the room smelled like or felt like as the suit, again, inhibits sensory contact unless it was faulty and let the outside in.
In spite of all of this the vat in the back let some steam out venting the chamber and hummed to live dimming the lights in the room and pulling the shielding up in the glass sealed cube. In the room amber blinking lights blinked above the door marking the room as 'active' or 'potentially hazardous'.
The lights inside the 'cube' were not overly bright. One might expect to see a rail gun, or some manner of Kree photon weapon. No. There was a faint grey mist that wafted with a small… hand? A hand that pushed off the glass. The cube wasn't a weapons housing, but a small room with what looked like a, maybe, an 8 year old clearly Mutant child. Albino, perhaps, with thin, pasty skin that flaked at joints, bald, frightened, and with more electrodes stuck to them than a motherboard.
The technician started pointing at a graph that showed fluctuating readings completely unconcerned for the kid who seemed agitated.
Were the running lights in the room occasionally dimming? There seemed to be a power draw from something, though it could easily be the computer charting everything.
The 'weapon', or child in question seemed to be, at a glance, apparently blind, or very unfocused and scared as hell. The clang of the machine they were in and the beeping of the computer was likely not helping matters, though for whatever reason Hydra was going the extra distance to keep this person contained.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Clint's face remains a mask of wooden impassiveness, but his stomach drops out from under him. He casually folds his hands behind him and clutches them tight to keep them from shaking.
Or shanking someone.
He's not listening to the distant echo of the voice on the other side of the hazmat suit in the least, but his attention flicks between the read out and the weapon — the kid in the glass case of EMOTION.
Retrieve or permanently decommission. That's an elegant way of putting it. Fuckers. BUT if he 'retrieves' the asset, what are the chances that they're going to give the kid to someone with a farm to run around for the rest of his days, like an orphaned puppy? Clint pays closer attention to the read outs that he's being shown, relying on his translators to catch what's being said and tell him what's happening here. He needs context.
((To be continued…))