The walk between the downed jet and the trees gives Natasha plenty of time to observe Rifle-Man. He moves like he knows how to fight. Not like a soldier exactly, but like he’s coiled tight and ready to spring into action. Something about his motions — the tension in his shoulders — when he comes closer suggest paranoia. But of the professional variety and not the healthy skittishness born from living among the walking dead for five years.
Their eyes meet before he steps into the quinjet and she squares her shoulders, ready to go for her gun if he makes a move. He doesn’t. And he doesn’t seem to recognize her either. People don’t, as a general rule. The big guys had their own action figures and their faces splayed across lunch boxes, but she and Clint kept a more low profile. But it still happens though, and the plain relief on people’s faces when they realize who she is, makes her gut twist with nausea. They think she’ll save them. She’s a hero, right?
Five years ago, she would have laid down her life for a civilian in a heartbeat. These days, the stakes are higher and her loyalties have narrowed down significantly. If you’re not in Stark Tower, you’re a liability or a zombie, and either one won’t endear you to her. Still, she tries. But when it comes down to it, she has to make the quick choices.
Once he’s inside, she picks up the shotgun again, walks a slow circle around the quinjet to get the lay of the land. There’s a town in the distance, she’s pretty sure. Maybe a couple of days walk out. A week if she’s unlucky.
Natasha tries not to think about the wealth of weapons inside the quinjet, or how easily he could take her down on the way back out. When she hears the scramble of metal of the hatch, she puts up the shotgun away. Neither one of them has to die today.
He’s quick, she’ll give him that. There was no lengthy weighing of what to bring or what to leave. That speaks to professional. Or maybe he’s just gotten used to making choices quickly. Time is always of the essence in this brand new world.
His goodbye falls mostly on deaf ears, Natasha already moving back towards the hatch with quick, purposeful motions. It’s the mid-word interruption that catches her attention.
A quick glance tells Natasha all she needs to know. It’s written in the twist of his features, the way his shoulders are squared and his gun out and pointed at the tree line. Zombie. The stench hasn’t hit her yet, and she can’t see how many they are through the trees. But this means she is out of time.
Fuck. Her thoughts unknowingly echo his sentiment. She had hoped to be gone before they arrived. She ducks into the quinjet. The zombies have their prey, until he’s dead, they won’t go looking for anyone else. As long as they don’t see or hear her, that is. Rifle-Man makes for an excellent distraction. And if he’s half the professional she thinks he might be, there’s a good chance he’ll still be alive after buying her ten minutes to get her shit together.
Inside the quinjet, lies a calm of sorts despite the mess of hastily secured supplies. There are dents where Rifle-Man took his fill, and had she more time, she could tell a lot about him by what he chose to take with him. First things first— Yellow-jacket’s body is held up only by the safety harness and she has to bodily shove it back to find and release the clasp on the front. It snaps open, and suddenly all his weight (dead weight by now) bears down on her. With a curse and a jerk of her shoulders, she steps away and to the side and the body crashes down to the floor.
Outside, she hears the first pop of gunfire. No time.
Every zombie attack, there’s a choice to make. Stay your ground and fight, hide or run. A split-second to make it and no way of knowing if it was the right call until you live or die. The supplies in the quin jet could last her (and Rifle-man) for a month if they ration well. But there’s no way to evacuate waste without opening the hatch, and if the jet is swarmed— Zombies don’t exactly get bored. Distracted, yes. Bored, no. There’s a chance they could just end up trapped and slowly dying in a glorified tin can.
Either way, the bodies need out. She’s not spending a month with Green-Shirt or Yellow-Jacket’s slowly decomposing bodies, and she can’t let them rot in here with all the supplies. There’s an infinitesimal chance the quinjet can still be retrieved and she has to act like it is a fact.
Natasha’s wrist protest as she grabs Yellow-Jacket by the waistband and begins bodily dragging him towards the hatch. She ignores the grinding pain, grits her teeth and works quicker. How much water spilled on the floor? How much still salvageable? It can cut their survival rate in here down to as little as three days. Yellow-Jacket tumbles down the still-open hatch, and she darts a quick look outside.
Just like that, the decision is made for her. They’re spilling out between the trees, rotting scraps of clothes hanging from narrow shoulders, mouths open in a twisted mockery of a scream for help. They stumble over piles of rags and bones — the ones that came before and fell under Rifle-Man’s bullets — some fall and are stepped over by the ones that came before. Their hands grab at the dust and even under the feet of the others, they keep trying to drag themselves forward. Yeah, they’ve got the scent of fresh meat alright. There’s no fighting all of them, and no outrunning this many.
Well, then.
Rifle-Man has made it to the quinjet, and he is tucking his rifle up against his shoulder. One shot, one zombie down. He’s good and they’re slow. That’s a point to her advantage. There’s still another couple of seconds.
Natasha darts back inside the hatch. Green-Shirt is closer — and, thank whoever is listening, lighter — and it’s a matter of moments before she falls into the dust as well, joining the crumpled heap of limbs on the ground.
It would be so easy now, to close and lock the hatch, leave him outside to distract the swarm and maybe his death will satisfy them, make them move on. Her hand is on the metal, ready to tug it closed, and then she leans out instead, drawing her gun and aiming it at the slowly approaching swarm.
”Get in,” she orders, leaving plenty of space for him to squeeze past without taking her eyes off the zombies. ”I’ll cover you.” Still too much of an Avenger to let a man die when she can save him, apparently. (Or maybe too much of a coward to be alone with her thoughts for too long.)
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2015-11-22 04:34 pm (UTC)Their eyes meet before he steps into the quinjet and she squares her shoulders, ready to go for her gun if he makes a move. He doesn’t. And he doesn’t seem to recognize her either. People don’t, as a general rule. The big guys had their own action figures and their faces splayed across lunch boxes, but she and Clint kept a more low profile. But it still happens though, and the plain relief on people’s faces when they realize who she is, makes her gut twist with nausea. They think she’ll save them. She’s a hero, right?
Five years ago, she would have laid down her life for a civilian in a heartbeat. These days, the stakes are higher and her loyalties have narrowed down significantly. If you’re not in Stark Tower, you’re a liability or a zombie, and either one won’t endear you to her. Still, she tries. But when it comes down to it, she has to make the quick choices.
Once he’s inside, she picks up the shotgun again, walks a slow circle around the quinjet to get the lay of the land. There’s a town in the distance, she’s pretty sure. Maybe a couple of days walk out. A week if she’s unlucky.
Natasha tries not to think about the wealth of weapons inside the quinjet, or how easily he could take her down on the way back out. When she hears the scramble of metal of the hatch, she puts up the shotgun away. Neither one of them has to die today.
He’s quick, she’ll give him that. There was no lengthy weighing of what to bring or what to leave. That speaks to professional. Or maybe he’s just gotten used to making choices quickly. Time is always of the essence in this brand new world.
His goodbye falls mostly on deaf ears, Natasha already moving back towards the hatch with quick, purposeful motions. It’s the mid-word interruption that catches her attention.
A quick glance tells Natasha all she needs to know. It’s written in the twist of his features, the way his shoulders are squared and his gun out and pointed at the tree line. Zombie. The stench hasn’t hit her yet, and she can’t see how many they are through the trees. But this means she is out of time.
Fuck. Her thoughts unknowingly echo his sentiment. She had hoped to be gone before they arrived. She ducks into the quinjet. The zombies have their prey, until he’s dead, they won’t go looking for anyone else. As long as they don’t see or hear her, that is. Rifle-Man makes for an excellent distraction. And if he’s half the professional she thinks he might be, there’s a good chance he’ll still be alive after buying her ten minutes to get her shit together.
Inside the quinjet, lies a calm of sorts despite the mess of hastily secured supplies. There are dents where Rifle-Man took his fill, and had she more time, she could tell a lot about him by what he chose to take with him. First things first— Yellow-jacket’s body is held up only by the safety harness and she has to bodily shove it back to find and release the clasp on the front. It snaps open, and suddenly all his weight (dead weight by now) bears down on her. With a curse and a jerk of her shoulders, she steps away and to the side and the body crashes down to the floor.
Outside, she hears the first pop of gunfire. No time.
Every zombie attack, there’s a choice to make. Stay your ground and fight, hide or run. A split-second to make it and no way of knowing if it was the right call until you live or die. The supplies in the quin jet could last her (and Rifle-man) for a month if they ration well. But there’s no way to evacuate waste without opening the hatch, and if the jet is swarmed— Zombies don’t exactly get bored. Distracted, yes. Bored, no. There’s a chance they could just end up trapped and slowly dying in a glorified tin can.
Either way, the bodies need out. She’s not spending a month with Green-Shirt or Yellow-Jacket’s slowly decomposing bodies, and she can’t let them rot in here with all the supplies. There’s an infinitesimal chance the quinjet can still be retrieved and she has to act like it is a fact.
Natasha’s wrist protest as she grabs Yellow-Jacket by the waistband and begins bodily dragging him towards the hatch. She ignores the grinding pain, grits her teeth and works quicker. How much water spilled on the floor? How much still salvageable? It can cut their survival rate in here down to as little as three days. Yellow-Jacket tumbles down the still-open hatch, and she darts a quick look outside.
Just like that, the decision is made for her. They’re spilling out between the trees, rotting scraps of clothes hanging from narrow shoulders, mouths open in a twisted mockery of a scream for help. They stumble over piles of rags and bones — the ones that came before and fell under Rifle-Man’s bullets — some fall and are stepped over by the ones that came before. Their hands grab at the dust and even under the feet of the others, they keep trying to drag themselves forward. Yeah, they’ve got the scent of fresh meat alright. There’s no fighting all of them, and no outrunning this many.
Well, then.
Rifle-Man has made it to the quinjet, and he is tucking his rifle up against his shoulder. One shot, one zombie down. He’s good and they’re slow. That’s a point to her advantage. There’s still another couple of seconds.
Natasha darts back inside the hatch. Green-Shirt is closer — and, thank whoever is listening, lighter — and it’s a matter of moments before she falls into the dust as well, joining the crumpled heap of limbs on the ground.
It would be so easy now, to close and lock the hatch, leave him outside to distract the swarm and maybe his death will satisfy them, make them move on. Her hand is on the metal, ready to tug it closed, and then she leans out instead, drawing her gun and aiming it at the slowly approaching swarm.
”Get in,” she orders, leaving plenty of space for him to squeeze past without taking her eyes off the zombies. ”I’ll cover you.” Still too much of an Avenger to let a man die when she can save him, apparently. (Or maybe too much of a coward to be alone with her thoughts for too long.)