Of The Wolves And The Orphans

Striking A Deal

Keira's POV

"Damn! I missed Christmas!" I sit in the co-pilot seat of a transport quinjet with my SHIELD standard phone, catching up on everything I possibly missed. "Not to mention a terrorist attack that decimated Stark's personal mansion, included a personal hit on the President of the United States, and the betrayal of one of the highest ranking officials in our nation, the Vice President. I would think... that was worth... I don't know... mentioning?" I pointedly ask an unresponsive Clint Barton.

We've been on this transport for three dragging hours with nothing to alleviate the silence except the occasional question or awkward statement, all originating from me. Clint Barton, however, has his headset on and is thoroughly engrossed in the task of flying. I, apparently, am invisible.

"Soooo," I elongate deliberately. I just keep talking because I know it's annoying. "Oh look! More celebrities slept with each other. Middle East is going crazy. Every day bank robbery that isn't important because I didn't do it. The government is being blamed for surveillance drones, which I knew about years ago. People are mad because the CIA can check their cellphones like a jealous girlfriennnnnd, blah blah blah." I throw my phone into the cargo hold (its worthless junk anyways) and lean my head back with closed eyes. I am bored to the point of extreme. I've never felt so much like a child in Clint's presence, to be honest.

I suppose I could try to sleep, but all my nerves are too on edge. I value my life enough to not attempt to annoy Hawkeye in any direct manner. I begin imagining all the subtle things I could do to get his attention...

Suddenly it comes to me in one stroke of pure genius. I jerk up and fumble with my harness and scramble into the cargo hold. In the corner of my eye, I see Clint's eyes follow me, but I ignore him. I locate the phone and (very ungracefully) climb back into my seat. I see he has gone back to his preoccupied-with-bullshit mode.

All it takes is a few clicks of a button, when suddenly an alert comes up on the console screen: "ALERT: PA OVERRIDE." And just like that, the electric guitar of Jimi Hendrix, Purple Haze is blasting over the speakers.

Clint Barton swears some very uncouth words that I will not indulge and rips the screaming headset off his undoubtedly ringing ears. He punches some buttons on the center console, but it does nothing. I have control of the system. I laugh hysterically and raise the volume even louder. He hits autopilot and then leans over to grab the phone. I push myself as far away as possible and hold it over my head. With a growl, he pins one of my arms and grabs the other, pulling it down to him and taking the phone from my grip.

A few button clicks later, the quinjet is completely silent. I cross my arms sulkily and stare out the window. "Such a buzzkill," I grumble.

"Keira—" he begins. I know that tone.

"Don't," I cut him off, "just don't. We're not in enemy airspace, we aren't under any impending attack of any kind, and I am finally free after months of imprisonment in both an 'educational' compound and a hospital. Also, Jimi Hendrix was one of the most celebrated instrumentalists of the 20th century and he was a major influence in the shaping of electric guitar. His music deserves to be enjoyed."

Clint scoffs. "If you want to talk about the shaping of any type of music, I think you should choose Pink Floyd."

"What? No way!"

"Philosophical lyrics, sonic experiment, you name it and they were one of the most musically influential groups in the history of pop or rock music."

"Well, I don't listen to them."

"Have you ever heard their songs?" He looks properly aghast.

"Not exactly?"

"You have no education. Next time there's a chance, you are getting cultured in the true nineteen-seventies music."