Clint Barton's 20th Anniversary Extravaganza Who: Everyone! What: Clint Barton's 20th Anniversary Extravaganza Where: On the grounds of the Barton Luxury Hotel, that used to be Clint's arena Warnings: Simulated (and flashbacked) Games violence. Recreations (and flashbacked) child murders. Mentions of cannibalism via blood-drinking (god this game is dark)
Clint entered the makeshift arena dressed in a tribute's uniform. It was a nice touch, he had to admit, and nostalgic in all the wrong ways. But it was light, and easy to move in; not so different from the leotards he'd worn in countless circus shows. And it was just a show. Just like what he did all the time, he reminded himself, as the platform rose. You've done it for real thing and got through it, Tony had said. Piece of cake. Tony, who was there, somewhere, on the other side of these walls. And all the other Victors except Natasha. Maybe.
The platform hummed to a stop and Clint squinted a little, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light shimmering off the pink sand dunes. He swallowed a mouthful of dry air. It even smelled the same. But it wasn't the same. Not really. Familiar, yes -- sand and some cacti, and the shadow of a holographic buzzard circling somewhere in the distance, but this was not really his arena.
It was a ropes course. Everything was up, twenty feet off the ground; ropes and bridges and walls to climb, the Cornucopia, the only thing on the ground, the starting place, with a perfect recreation of his Games bow shining in its mouth. So he moved forward and --
Noise. All around him, a familiar battle commenced, animatronic children rushing in from all sides, looking so real that his eyes widened for a second, a jolt of surprise as his eyes met the face of a living ghost, the girl from Eight he hadn't seen in two decades, but even now, he recognized her sneer. They'd gotten it exactly right. Clint's heartbeat sped as he rushed for the bow, squeezing his eyes shut for a just a second before he turned around, saw Stunner, the boy from One, the easy favorite that year, coming after Rain. Rain, the sweet-faced girl his age, who'd stabbed Stunner in the back so Clint could have the bow that had saved his life. It should've been hard, Clint thought, to loose that first arrow. Even if it wasn't the real Stunner anymore. It was still awful. It should've been hard.
It wasn't.
The arrow sang exactly through the back of Stunner's neck, even cleaner than it had the first time. No blood, now, just a thump as the robot boy hit the ground. Just a show, this time; nothing too graphic. He was supposed to climb up on the Cornucopia and up the rope, he knew; the whole thing was up high from here on out. But this time; now that Clint was older, and still afraid, but less afraid, he wanted to show his respect. He could do that now. Even if it wasn't the real Rain. So he crouched down next to her, this robot made to look like a dead girl with frozen eyes, and passed his hand over her face, shutting the lids as, all around him, the other robots did what they were built for, kept their places. "Thank you," he murmured.
He swung up onto the Cornucopia and looked over his shoulder, scanning the recreation of the bloodbath. He knew it was accurate only from the tapes he'd seen after the fact, but there was more shot he needed to make here, one that he barely remembered, the girl doubled over on the field, coughing blood. Now, here electronic counterpart was just doubled over, but they'd perfectly recreated her retching, the rippling of her shoulders. The shot hadn't been from exactly this height, but this was the path, and it was close enough, this mercy kill, as if she were wounded animal and not a wounded person.
Two down, now, and six to go as he shimmied up the rope, wincing and swinging away as a holographic buzzard dived in on him from his left. It left him when he reached the an airy suspension bridge, and he clung tight to the thin wires as the wind picked up, a nod, he was sure, to the sandstorm that had blown through on his first night in the arena. He was almost at the end before he made his next shot, no small feat on such unstable footing. The hardest part was getting it through the robot's eye from this distance, but he managed it. It was a less lucky shot now, with two more decades of experience under his belt.
A few minutes later, he reached a little perch, slanted and uncomfortable and just about as wide as the arm of the cactus that he'd wedged himself against for two days, although this time there were no spines digging into his back, and that was a blessing. Three shots to make here, and one of them, he knew, would be the worst. His heart thrummed painfully, temples sweating as he lined it up. Tanner. From Nine. Maybe sixteen, he'd been, Clint couldn't remember. But he could imagine what must be up on the screen at the party now -- that "best moment" on the highlights reel, when Clint struck his jugular on purpose. So he'd bleed. So he could scramble down from his safe place and suck up the boy's blood, because it was the closest thing he'd had to water.
Clint made the shot.
For a brief moment, he was sure the light around him flashed blood red. He exhaled long and low, the nocked his last arrow. When this was real, he'd stayed here another two days, barely surviving on the gifts Tony had sent him, and a lizard muttation which, he noted, now crawled up the cactus beside him, its holographic teeth sinking into his leg. At least it didn't hurt, this time, though he couldn't help but flinch.
The girl from Four appeared over a dune, carrying nearly-unconscious boy on her shoulders. They'd been friends; they'd stuck together. Clint liked to think that if he hadn't angled the shot so perfectly, given it just enough force, so that one shot killed both of them, one of them might have won.
He discarded the empty quiver, useless to him now as he worked his way toward the end. He swung over a fissure that teemed with muttation scorpions, his hands so sweaty, now, that he nearly lost his grip. But he landed, barely, on the other side, then climbed back down, his legs wobbling a little as his feet hit the floor. The door was shaped just like the mouth of the Cornucopia, alluding to the fact that, as so many Games did, this one had ended exactly where it had begun. Two others left, now, and they looked just as frail as they had twenty years ago, thirsty and sunburnt and starving. They had been so much harder before; almost an even match back then, when he didn't have age and size on them.
This time, it was easy, barely a fight before he clubbed them both to "death" with his bow. A block, a couple of quick swings, and they fell. It was over, and he knelt down beside the bodies that were not really bodies and scooped a few shallow handfuls of sand over them.
Then he straightened up and pushed the door open, flinching in the rush of camera flashes as he stepped on onto a stage to a thunder of applause. From his place on stage, Clint could make out some familiar faces against the glare of stagelights, the shapes of arrows everywhere, the color scheme that matched the desert. His heart thrummed like a frightened bird to see it, but his smile was instinctive as the cameras flashed, capturing Stane as he lifted up Clint's right hand in victory, clenching it tight.