Clint didn't know what was worse, the climate, the costumes or the company... What was up with this cracked-out week? Things had definitely gone from bad to worse as he was magicked into some wild west fantasy with Oliver Queen, Katniss Everdeen and some chickie with a bow who was vaguely reminiscent of his not-a-sidekick--Purple Arrow Hawkingbird-ette. And if that was was, Clint was going to feel very guilty about looking at her chest.
With a finger thrust into the air, Clint tipped back his cowboy hat and turned so that he could eye the girl who had shown up talking a mile a minute. He adjusted his grip on his compound. He had started carrying one again ever since this mess that had made him a teenager, to compensate for his loss in upper body strength. He preferred his recurve, but sometimes certain jobs just required certain tools and Clint didn't mind changing things up.
"Did anyone catch all that? And can anyone tell me what in the hell is going on? And where the hell we are?"