Percy Jackson Avenger and S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent

2016

By April 2016, S.H.I.E.L.D. had finally come to the conclusion that we worked best as a three after countless successful missions like that one in darkest Tajikistan. They called us Strike Team Delta, for reasons best known to themselves. We did hundreds of missions (Not sure if I'm exaggerating or not, it all blurred together and we never got a break except for injuries anyway) in Egypt, Malaysia, Libya, Turkey, Yemen, Ecuador, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Liechtenstein (for some reason) and also back in the US, actually, most of them were in the back in the states. But the worst mission we ever had was our last as a team, as it always is. It was in Hungary. Budapest to be precise. I quite liked that area (by which I mean the countries that were relatively nearby, by which... Screw it, I mean Europe in general. It's just all so tiny there! And old!), so it was a shame, really, that the whole fiasco was pretty much my fault for existing in the first place.

It started off with a botched job of trying to blow up some communist extremists that had a warehouse just outside the city outskirts (once again, why is it always warehouses?). By 'botched', I mean that the three of us ended up lying on our backs whilst covered in soot and surrounded by a group of pissed-off and decidedly not blown-up communists.

To be fair to us, it was a large group and we did blow up at least half of them before the fight got really messy.

We emerged victorious, but very bruised and more than a little bloody. Nat was most upset about the fact that her favourite knife had been nicked on someone's tooth, I think. I didn't really want to think about it, especially given that my entire left leg looked a little like it had gone through a mincer. Fortunately, it looked worse than it was, which to be fair wasn't difficult.

It was then of course that we didn't see the final one of our opponents; only noticing him when a patch of scarlet bloomed across Clint's stomach. He frowned down at the blood almost disbelievingly before nearly collapsing in on himself, saved by my arms and Natasha shooting the final communist who let go of the knife that he'd half pulled out of Clint's body.

Something just snapped. Sure, I've been angry before. Livid, even. But all of that was a toddler's tantrum compared to the pure, unadulterated rage that course through my veins in that moment. Fury not only at the enemy, but at myself for not noticing the threat. At all three of us, for worrying about my leg and neglecting to check properly, for getting cocky in our successes.

I didn't even hear Nat telling me that he'd live if we stopped the bleeding, that the knife had hit a rib and not Clint's vital organs.

I couldn't hear anything except the blood roaring in my ears. I could suddenly smell salt on the air, bitterly strong.

Something moved in the debris and my gut, and any control that I'd previously had abruptly shattered.

I lifted my gun without thinking about it, but the one surviving wall that the guy was hiding behind collapsed with the force of a huge earth tremor before I could fire off a shot. The shock rippled through my suddenly exhausted body, even as twin pairs of scarlet eyes emerged from the smoke, and these huge great dogs prowled towards me.

Dogs that were apparently impervious to bullets. 'That's not good.' my brain helpfully supplied in the sudden, numbing absence of my rage. Thanks, brain. Always the voice of wisdom.

I sighed in relief as I saw that Nat had dragged Clint away from the path of the dogs and it was only me that would be killed in the trampling.

My gun clicked empty. I holstered it contemptuously. Fat lot of good it'd done me. I thought that I'd feel furious at the injustice, but I didn't. I just felt wrung out, hollow, drawing my knife on training and instinct instead of a conscious decision.