The recoil of her handgun rattles the bones in Natasha's sprained wrist, each pop of a bullet sending a lance of hot pain from her wrist through her elbow all the way up to her shoulder. The pain is secondary -- felt like a noise heard under water -- to the steady repetition of aim-fire-breathe. One shot. One decomposing body crumpling to the dusty ground. Another shot. Another body.
Five bodies on the ground before Rifle-Man is inside, but more zombies are coming to take their place. Scattered moans can be heard above the rattle of thin bones and the rasp of dry skin over rotting flesh. Natasha gives up the cover-fire, stepping back inside the jet. The stench of death rolls through the hatch as she pulls it forcibly closed, her stomach turning with a familiar ease.
There's barely time to register the fact that Rifle-Man throws something out before the hatch is fully closed. Natasha hits the mechanical lock, sealing them in tight. The metal walls vibrate with the force of the detonation outside, and Natasha's mind belatedly puts the pieces together: Grenade of some sort.
Definitely a professional.
The adrenaline buzzing through Natasha's veins begins to fade, sending a faint tremor through her hands. Her muscles have been so tense since the craft spun out of her control, she has to make a conscious effort to relax them. Turning her back on Rifle-Man, now that his rifle has been put down (though that doesn't make the skin at the back of her neck crawl any less exactly, she makes her way to the little cock-pit. The cloaking runs on a different circuit from the main power. Its power source is nestled deep inside the craft, and even with the quinjet dead in the water, it should work.
Hitting the button doesn't produce any sound. No sense of change. Then again, the instruments are all dark, and the cloaking only apparent from the outside. There's no way to know if it worked. Though, they could always go outside and check. Laughter tries to force itself up her throat, and she swallows it back down before she returns to the back of the quinjet.
Natasha sinks down in one of the stylish leather seats opposite Rifle-Man's rifle, every line of her body suddenly betraying her exhaustion. This day just keeps on getting better, doesn't it?
They flew out before dawn, hitting their target just after daybreak. The zombies don't sleep or retreat, but they go more sluggish during the day. Clumsier, easier to outrun. Sure, in the dark shadows of the abandoned (but, this is the important bit, fully-stocked) warehouse there wasn't really any daylight to slow them. But the site was sealed shut. It should have been empty.
It wasn't.
If her team had been professionals (there are nights when she dreams about a fully equipped SHIELD tac-team at her back, or even just one qualified agent), six lone zombies wouldn't have been an issue. Hell, if she'd been the first one to stumble into them, she could've made short work of them. Of course that's not how it went.
No. Half her goddamned team went down over a stupid mistake and lack of training.
Still, weighed against the inelegantly packed supplies filling up every available space in the quinjet, the loss of three lives would've been deemed acceptable. Everyone knows when they go out there's always a chance they won't come back. Except now the death toll is up to five and the quinjet is busted. Potentially beyond repair. She's so far out of the realm of acceptable losses here that her head is spinning with it. Her whole body feels heavy, sagging back against the smooth leather.
Everyone's luck runs out sooner or later. Exhaustion takes it's toll, and before long smart people start making bad calls. It was only a matter of time before it happened to Natasha. She's been running on fumes for the past six months now. It was bound to catch up with her.
Now she has made a potentially fatal mistake, trapping herself with a stranger she doesn't know the first thing about. All for a second of weakness and compassion. Natasha heaves a heavy sigh and looks over at Rifle-Man. Her gun is pointed at the floor, wrist braced against the side of her knee. Not aiming at him, but giving every impression that might change.
"I'm going to need you to strip," she says, flatly. Ideally, the demand should have come before she let him inside. When she had the promise of safety as leverage. Split-second decisions. They get you every time. Well, the threat of death is going to have to do for now.
no subject
Five bodies on the ground before Rifle-Man is inside, but more zombies are coming to take their place. Scattered moans can be heard above the rattle of thin bones and the rasp of dry skin over rotting flesh. Natasha gives up the cover-fire, stepping back inside the jet. The stench of death rolls through the hatch as she pulls it forcibly closed, her stomach turning with a familiar ease.
There's barely time to register the fact that Rifle-Man throws something out before the hatch is fully closed. Natasha hits the mechanical lock, sealing them in tight. The metal walls vibrate with the force of the detonation outside, and Natasha's mind belatedly puts the pieces together: Grenade of some sort.
Definitely a professional.
The adrenaline buzzing through Natasha's veins begins to fade, sending a faint tremor through her hands. Her muscles have been so tense since the craft spun out of her control, she has to make a conscious effort to relax them. Turning her back on Rifle-Man, now that his rifle has been put down (though that doesn't make the skin at the back of her neck crawl any less exactly, she makes her way to the little cock-pit. The cloaking runs on a different circuit from the main power. Its power source is nestled deep inside the craft, and even with the quinjet dead in the water, it should work.
Hitting the button doesn't produce any sound. No sense of change. Then again, the instruments are all dark, and the cloaking only apparent from the outside. There's no way to know if it worked. Though, they could always go outside and check. Laughter tries to force itself up her throat, and she swallows it back down before she returns to the back of the quinjet.
Natasha sinks down in one of the stylish leather seats opposite Rifle-Man's rifle, every line of her body suddenly betraying her exhaustion. This day just keeps on getting better, doesn't it?
They flew out before dawn, hitting their target just after daybreak. The zombies don't sleep or retreat, but they go more sluggish during the day. Clumsier, easier to outrun. Sure, in the dark shadows of the abandoned (but, this is the important bit, fully-stocked) warehouse there wasn't really any daylight to slow them. But the site was sealed shut. It should have been empty.
It wasn't.
If her team had been professionals (there are nights when she dreams about a fully equipped SHIELD tac-team at her back, or even just one qualified agent), six lone zombies wouldn't have been an issue. Hell, if she'd been the first one to stumble into them, she could've made short work of them. Of course that's not how it went.
No. Half her goddamned team went down over a stupid mistake and lack of training.
Still, weighed against the inelegantly packed supplies filling up every available space in the quinjet, the loss of three lives would've been deemed acceptable. Everyone knows when they go out there's always a chance they won't come back. Except now the death toll is up to five and the quinjet is busted. Potentially beyond repair. She's so far out of the realm of acceptable losses here that her head is spinning with it. Her whole body feels heavy, sagging back against the smooth leather.
Everyone's luck runs out sooner or later. Exhaustion takes it's toll, and before long smart people start making bad calls. It was only a matter of time before it happened to Natasha. She's been running on fumes for the past six months now. It was bound to catch up with her.
Now she has made a potentially fatal mistake, trapping herself with a stranger she doesn't know the first thing about. All for a second of weakness and compassion. Natasha heaves a heavy sigh and looks over at Rifle-Man. Her gun is pointed at the floor, wrist braced against the side of her knee. Not aiming at him, but giving every impression that might change.
"I'm going to need you to strip," she says, flatly. Ideally, the demand should have come before she let him inside. When she had the promise of safety as leverage. Split-second decisions. They get you every time. Well, the threat of death is going to have to do for now.