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Sep. 24th, 2013 07:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katyafelineSomehow he always gets these oh-so-glamorous jobs. Clint stares at himself in the mirror of one of the most ridiculously over-the-top bathrooms he's ever seen. Seriously, this guy is compensating for something. This was supposed to be a nice, quick, 'while you're in town, Barton' sort of mission - a local crime-slash-drug boss was evidently thinking about going big-time, and needed a quiet talking-to. The meeting had been set up, he'd shown up at the appropriately swank address in the dead of night, and... well, now he'd been cooling his heels for an hour. He's not sure if 'unexpected meeting' means some sort of actual business problem, or the boss was too high on his own product to talk sense. At this rate, he might be done in time for breakfast - most likely, it'll be a late brunch.
Frank D'Amico does not strike him as a particularly savvy businessman, or a particularly great threat. His men are very minimally trained, and he spends money like it's going out of style. Take the bathroom he's in for example - even the toilet seat is heated. It's all a little bit ridiculous - he's met Hollywood executives with a greater sense of viciousness. One hour more, he decides. One more hour, and then he's out of here - some other agent can introduce this guy to the idea that being a big fish in a small pond just makes you a fat meal when you jump in to the ocean.
And then the gunshot rings out. Just one, down the hallway by the sound of it. Most likely from one of the guards by the elevator, the ones in the suits that looked sharp but would probably prove to be shabby in the presence of real money. Seconds tick by without a retort, and he cautiously retreats further into the room, making sure that there's solid furniture between himself and the door (not hard - there's enough wardrobes and chairs and ornate bits of decoration in here to fortify himself for days).
"Hawkeye to backup, shot fired, what's the story?" He murmurs, trusting the throat mike to pick up his voice.
"No information - some kid went into the lobby a while ago, no motion since."
Well, no kid is going to be up here, so that's singularly unhelpful.
"The elevator is not an option - alternate routes out?" He has no idea what they've decided to shoot themselves up about, but he isn't about to get in the middle of it.
"There's a..." The rest is drowned out in a fusillade of gunfire - multiple calibers, multiple skill levels - some people out there are firing with a somewhat trained calm, but others are acting like the whole aim is to fill the air with as much hot lead as possible in the shortest amount of time. Clint gets low, fast, sprawling against the gold-ingrained tile.
"Exit, now!"
"Out the window, there's a rain spout that is five feet away from a fire escape. If you can get into the hall you..."
"Hell no. I'm taking that one, get someone to cover me." The number of guns firing is whittling down rapidly, and he really doesn't want to be around when whoever wins decides to see who else is up here. The window isn't designed to open, but shatters under vigorous application of a chair.
Escaping a skyscraper from the outside is not fun, but it has the benefit of not including bullets - evidently whoever was lighting up the place either didn't know he was there, or didn't care. Once he navigates the tricky space between drain spout and fire escape the rest is relatively easy, if tedious, and has him muttering unkind things about pick-up jobs he didn't want in the first place as he rounds the corner towards the front of the building, to get to the waiting van.
And that's when the machine-gun fire echos overhead. The source is easy to find - there's a kid in an honest to God rocket pack firing two Gatling-guns into the apartment he so recently left. The kid sprays the entire side of the building - where the kitchen was, if he remembers the layout correctly. Some day, he's going to write a book, and it's going to be titled 'How to not look like an idiot when firing a gun', and the first chapter will be 'Aim'. Actually, that might be the whole book right there.
"Enjoy hearing loss, kid." He mutters as he jogs across the street to the waiting van. Both of the SHIELD agents serving as his backup are working, one - Hamilton- on his cell phone while pulling up files on the mobsters above, the other - Lang - reviewing surveillance video.
"What's the story?" Clint asks once he gets himself settled, snatching one of the bottles of water from storage. "What's with Rambo up there?"
"Ever see the Kick-Ass video?" He's asked in return by Hamilton, and is treated (this being a highly dubious description of events) to a video filmed on what was obviously a cell phone of a young man getting his ass kicked by three gang members while protecting a fourth. It's all very inspiring, he's sure, but something big has happened to launch this kid from there to attacking a mobster in his own home.
"There's more where that came from." Lang adds in, and pulls up a link to the 'Kick-Ass Unmasked' video, which is... educational, to say the least. From this video, he can surmise three things - Big Daddy is most assuredly dead or wishing he was, Kick-Ass is nothing much more than a very frightened kid in over his head, and that girl is possibly more crazy and deadly than her dad.
He has a sneaking suspicion he knows who started the light show upstairs.
"You said a little girl went into the building? Let me see." He hovers over Lang's shoulder until the video comes up, and there she is - same skirt, same economy of movement even when rocking pigtails and a rolling suitcase instead of a cape and a gun. He watches as she taps on the door insistently, and evidently made convincing enough sad faces to be allowed inside.
"Well, the doormen are dead too." Clint announces - three bright flashes reflect off the door glass. Most likely she was using a silencer at that point, or the sound would have been audible to the agents here in the van, and he would have gotten a warning a whole heck of a lot earlier.
"Shit, what is she, ten?" Lang sounds aghast - probably thinking about his own little girl, who can't be much younger than this kid.
"Maybe a small eleven or twelve." Clint agrees.
"Shit, we've got to, shit," Lang's half out of his seat with his sidearm already out of its holster before Clint shoves him back into place.
"From what I heard, she's treating everyone up there as a hostile, and she's good. You won't get two steps inside that apartment. On the plus side, I don't think anyone needs to worry about this D'Amico character." He grabs another bottle of water, and his P30 he had stashed away. "I'm going to see what I can see from up high - I'm sure someone's going to want to know what's going on."
He understands, sometime, why Coulson likes to be the one in the suit and the official identification - the doorman can't seem to open the door fast enough for him once the guy gets a look at Clint's ID - never mind it's the faked FBI one for his current cover, not his real SHIELD ID. The office he breaks into is quiet this time of night... morning, he realizes - it's getting on late enough that soon the sun is going to rise. He's just settled in with good line-of-sight to the window he knows is D'Amico's office when the next act of this crazy three-ring circus kicks off. A heavily-built man in a suit (D'Amico he identifies, from staring so long at the man's file) explodes out of his own office window, sailing out over the street below... and then literally explodes. The swearing he can hear over his comm unit lets him know that at least he isn't hallucinating. That helps, because not five minutes later two kids (one the now-deaf teenager, the other one the girl, bloodied and looking decidedly worse for wear) lift off with that rocket pack, heading north.
Well. Coulson's going to love this.
Frank D'Amico does not strike him as a particularly savvy businessman, or a particularly great threat. His men are very minimally trained, and he spends money like it's going out of style. Take the bathroom he's in for example - even the toilet seat is heated. It's all a little bit ridiculous - he's met Hollywood executives with a greater sense of viciousness. One hour more, he decides. One more hour, and then he's out of here - some other agent can introduce this guy to the idea that being a big fish in a small pond just makes you a fat meal when you jump in to the ocean.
And then the gunshot rings out. Just one, down the hallway by the sound of it. Most likely from one of the guards by the elevator, the ones in the suits that looked sharp but would probably prove to be shabby in the presence of real money. Seconds tick by without a retort, and he cautiously retreats further into the room, making sure that there's solid furniture between himself and the door (not hard - there's enough wardrobes and chairs and ornate bits of decoration in here to fortify himself for days).
"Hawkeye to backup, shot fired, what's the story?" He murmurs, trusting the throat mike to pick up his voice.
"No information - some kid went into the lobby a while ago, no motion since."
Well, no kid is going to be up here, so that's singularly unhelpful.
"The elevator is not an option - alternate routes out?" He has no idea what they've decided to shoot themselves up about, but he isn't about to get in the middle of it.
"There's a..." The rest is drowned out in a fusillade of gunfire - multiple calibers, multiple skill levels - some people out there are firing with a somewhat trained calm, but others are acting like the whole aim is to fill the air with as much hot lead as possible in the shortest amount of time. Clint gets low, fast, sprawling against the gold-ingrained tile.
"Exit, now!"
"Out the window, there's a rain spout that is five feet away from a fire escape. If you can get into the hall you..."
"Hell no. I'm taking that one, get someone to cover me." The number of guns firing is whittling down rapidly, and he really doesn't want to be around when whoever wins decides to see who else is up here. The window isn't designed to open, but shatters under vigorous application of a chair.
Escaping a skyscraper from the outside is not fun, but it has the benefit of not including bullets - evidently whoever was lighting up the place either didn't know he was there, or didn't care. Once he navigates the tricky space between drain spout and fire escape the rest is relatively easy, if tedious, and has him muttering unkind things about pick-up jobs he didn't want in the first place as he rounds the corner towards the front of the building, to get to the waiting van.
And that's when the machine-gun fire echos overhead. The source is easy to find - there's a kid in an honest to God rocket pack firing two Gatling-guns into the apartment he so recently left. The kid sprays the entire side of the building - where the kitchen was, if he remembers the layout correctly. Some day, he's going to write a book, and it's going to be titled 'How to not look like an idiot when firing a gun', and the first chapter will be 'Aim'. Actually, that might be the whole book right there.
"Enjoy hearing loss, kid." He mutters as he jogs across the street to the waiting van. Both of the SHIELD agents serving as his backup are working, one - Hamilton- on his cell phone while pulling up files on the mobsters above, the other - Lang - reviewing surveillance video.
"What's the story?" Clint asks once he gets himself settled, snatching one of the bottles of water from storage. "What's with Rambo up there?"
"Ever see the Kick-Ass video?" He's asked in return by Hamilton, and is treated (this being a highly dubious description of events) to a video filmed on what was obviously a cell phone of a young man getting his ass kicked by three gang members while protecting a fourth. It's all very inspiring, he's sure, but something big has happened to launch this kid from there to attacking a mobster in his own home.
"There's more where that came from." Lang adds in, and pulls up a link to the 'Kick-Ass Unmasked' video, which is... educational, to say the least. From this video, he can surmise three things - Big Daddy is most assuredly dead or wishing he was, Kick-Ass is nothing much more than a very frightened kid in over his head, and that girl is possibly more crazy and deadly than her dad.
He has a sneaking suspicion he knows who started the light show upstairs.
"You said a little girl went into the building? Let me see." He hovers over Lang's shoulder until the video comes up, and there she is - same skirt, same economy of movement even when rocking pigtails and a rolling suitcase instead of a cape and a gun. He watches as she taps on the door insistently, and evidently made convincing enough sad faces to be allowed inside.
"Well, the doormen are dead too." Clint announces - three bright flashes reflect off the door glass. Most likely she was using a silencer at that point, or the sound would have been audible to the agents here in the van, and he would have gotten a warning a whole heck of a lot earlier.
"Shit, what is she, ten?" Lang sounds aghast - probably thinking about his own little girl, who can't be much younger than this kid.
"Maybe a small eleven or twelve." Clint agrees.
"Shit, we've got to, shit," Lang's half out of his seat with his sidearm already out of its holster before Clint shoves him back into place.
"From what I heard, she's treating everyone up there as a hostile, and she's good. You won't get two steps inside that apartment. On the plus side, I don't think anyone needs to worry about this D'Amico character." He grabs another bottle of water, and his P30 he had stashed away. "I'm going to see what I can see from up high - I'm sure someone's going to want to know what's going on."
He understands, sometime, why Coulson likes to be the one in the suit and the official identification - the doorman can't seem to open the door fast enough for him once the guy gets a look at Clint's ID - never mind it's the faked FBI one for his current cover, not his real SHIELD ID. The office he breaks into is quiet this time of night... morning, he realizes - it's getting on late enough that soon the sun is going to rise. He's just settled in with good line-of-sight to the window he knows is D'Amico's office when the next act of this crazy three-ring circus kicks off. A heavily-built man in a suit (D'Amico he identifies, from staring so long at the man's file) explodes out of his own office window, sailing out over the street below... and then literally explodes. The swearing he can hear over his comm unit lets him know that at least he isn't hallucinating. That helps, because not five minutes later two kids (one the now-deaf teenager, the other one the girl, bloodied and looking decidedly worse for wear) lift off with that rocket pack, heading north.
Well. Coulson's going to love this.
