The echoing gunshots faded behind them, swallowed by the labyrinthine depths of the Budapest sewer system. The air, thick with the stench of stagnant water, raw sewage, and damp earth, pressed against Ibnor's lungs. Rain, having seeped through cracks in the concrete above, dripped with a steady plink… plink… plink from the grimy ceiling, each drop echoing unnervingly in the oppressive silence that followed the gunfire. The only other sound was the rushing of murky water, ankle-deep, swirling around their feet. But the silence was deceptive, a thin veneer over the adrenaline that still coursed through their veins.
Clint Barton, breathing heavily, lowered his bow, the tension still etched on his face. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, mingling with the grime that clung to his skin. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, his eyes darting between the dark tunnels that stretched out before them – a branching maze of concrete and shadow. Natasha Romanoff, ever the professional, scanned their surroundings with practiced ease, her eyes sharp and alert, like a predator assessing its territory. The dim light filtering down from the manholes above barely illuminated the dank tunnels, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the curved concrete walls, making it difficult to discern friend from foe, or even solid ground from treacherous depths.
"Clear," she confirmed, her voice clipped and professional, holstering her Glock 26s with a smooth, almost fluid motion.
Their mission had been a clean extraction of sensitive intel from a heavily guarded safe house. It was supposed to be in and out, a ghost operation. But as always, things got messy. The Hungarian Special Forces had arrived sooner than anticipated, alerted by an unknown source. The ensuing firefight had been contained within the building, but the escape route had been compromised. They were forced to improvise, using a pre-planned contingency: the sewer system.
It was while they were navigating the maze of concrete tunnels, following the predetermined escape route, that they found him. He was huddled in a small alcove, tucked away in the shadows, his face pale and his eyes wide with terror. He was dressed in…well, normal clothes. Jeans, a plain t-shirt, and sneakers. Not the kind of attire you'd expect to find in the bowels of Budapest, especially not after a high-stakes firefight with Hungarian Special Forces. He was clearly out of place, a civilian caught in the crossfire.
At first, they'd assumed he was a local, perhaps seeking shelter from the rain. But his reaction to their appearance – not fear, but a stunned, almost disbelieving awe – was what caught their attention. He hadn't screamed or run. He'd simply stared, his eyes fixed on them as if they were…miracles.
Clint had cautiously approached him, his bow still raised, but his posture non-threatening. "Hey, kid," he'd said, his voice low and calm. "You okay? You need help?"
The young man had just blinked, his gaze shifting between Clint and Natasha, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. It was then that Clint noticed the almost childlike wonder in his eyes, a look that didn't belong in this dark, dangerous place.
"Scratch that," Natasha muttered, her hand instantly snapping back to her holstered weapon. A distinct splash echoed from the tunnel behind them, followed by the hurried sound of boots splashing through the water.
Clint's bow was up again in a heartbeat, an arrow nocked and ready. He motioned for Ibnor to stay close, pulling him behind a thick concrete support beam.
"Stay down," he whispered, his voice low and urgent.
Two figures burst into view from the tunnel behind them, Hungarian Special Forces, their faces grim, their weapons raised. They hadn't expected to find them so quickly. Clint loosed his arrow, a silent blur of motion. It struck the lead soldier in the shoulder, throwing him off balance. Before the second soldier could react, Natasha was on him, a whirlwind of deadly grace. A swift kick to the knee buckled his leg, and before he could cry out, she had him pinned against the wall, her hand clamped over his mouth, a knife pressed against his throat.
"Csendben maradj," she hissed in rapid Hungarian – "Stay quiet."
The soldier's eyes widened in terror, and he nodded frantically. Natasha released him slowly, keeping the knife at his throat. He didn't dare make a sound.
"We need to move," Clint whispered, glancing back down the tunnel. "More are coming."
They moved quickly, Natasha keeping the captured soldier as a human shield for a short distance before discreetly knocking him unconscious and leaving him slumped against the tunnel wall. They pressed on, deeper into the sewer system, the sound of pursuit growing closer.
They reached a T-junction in the tunnel. The rushing water split, flowing down both paths.
"Which way?" Clint asked, glancing at Natasha.
Natasha pointed to the right. "The schematics indicated a maintenance access ladder about a hundred meters down this way. It leads to a less-trafficked part of the city."
As they moved down the right tunnel, they heard another splash behind them. This time, it was closer. A volley of shots rang out, the bullets ricocheting off the concrete walls, sending chips of stone flying.
"Down!" Natasha yelled, pushing Ibnor to the ground. She and Clint crouched behind another support beam, returning fire. The air filled with the sharp smell of gunpowder and the echoing reports of gunfire.
Clint fired a few more arrows, forcing the pursuing soldiers to take cover. "We can't stay here," he said, his voice strained.
"We need to get to that ladder."
Natasha nodded, already moving. She grabbed Ibnor's arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come on! Run!"
They sprinted down the tunnel, the sound of gunfire still echoing behind them. The water splashed around their feet, making each step treacherous. Ibnor stumbled again, this time falling to his knees.
"Get up!" Natasha yelled, pulling him to his feet again. "We're almost there!"
They finally reached the access ladder, a rusty metal structure bolted to the tunnel wall. Natasha quickly checked above, ensuring the coast was clear.
"Clint, go first! I'll bring up the rear."
Clint nodded and began to climb, his movements swift and practiced. Natasha kept her gun trained on the tunnel entrance, her eyes scanning for any sign of the pursuing soldiers.
They emerged from the sewer into a deserted alleyway, the rain having stopped, leaving the night air crisp and cool. The sudden change from the oppressive darkness and stench of the sewer to the fresh air and open sky was almost disorienting. A battered, nondescript grey van waited, engine idling quietly. A man in a dark suit sat at the wheel, his face grim and focused. He didn't speak, just nodded curtly as they approached. His posture and demeanor screamed professionalism, a silent testament to the efficiency of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Extraction's here," Natasha said, her voice clipped and professional. She ushered Clint and the young man towards the van, her eyes still scanning the alleyway for any signs of pursuit. She moved with a grace and purpose that Ibnor found both mesmerizing and intimidating.
As they climbed into the back of the van, the young man, still reeling from the chaos he'd witnessed – the gunshots, the explosions, the sheer intensity of the two agents – managed to stammer out, "Thank…thank you, Clint…Nat…" He immediately regretted it. The words had slipped out before he could stop them.
The van lurched forward, tires crunching on loose gravel. Clint and Natasha exchanged a sharp, almost imperceptible glance. The air in the confined space suddenly crackled with tension. The casual atmosphere that had briefly existed in the sewer vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating suspicion.
"How…?" Natasha began, her voice low and laced with suspicion, the single word hanging in the air like a drawn blade. Her eyes, usually so expressive and capable of conveying a wide range of emotions, were now cold and calculating, fixed on Ibnor with an unnerving intensity. They seemed to bore into him, searching for any flicker of deceit, any hint of a lie. The shift in her demeanor was abrupt and chilling, the playful camaraderie of the escape completely vanished.
The young man froze, realizing his mistake. He hadn't meant to say their names. It had just…slipped out, a reflex born from years of watching them on screen. Now, that casual familiarity felt like a profound violation, a breach of a line he never should have crossed. A cold dread washed over him, settling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel the weight of their combined scrutiny, and it was far more palpable than any movie screen could ever convey. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a bug pinned beneath a microscope.
They looked so much like…well, like they did in the movies, only… more. More real. More intense. More present. The artificial gloss of Hollywood was gone, replaced by a raw, almost primal energy that made them even more captivating. They were undeniably more striking, more beautiful than their on-screen portrayals. It was as if the cameras couldn't fully capture their essence, their inherent magnetism.
Natasha's features were sharper, more defined, her bone structure more prominent, giving her an almost ethereal beauty. Her eyes, those piercing blue eyes, possessed a depth and intensity that the screen simply couldn't capture. They held a wisdom and a weariness that spoke of battles fought and losses endured, but also a fierce intelligence that made her even more alluring.
Clint, too, had a ruggedness, a weathered charm that was amplified in person. The lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw spoke of a life lived on the edge, a life of danger and sacrifice, but instead of making him look worn, they added to his appeal, giving him a roguish, almost dangerous charm. He wasn't just a face on a poster; he was a man forged in fire, and the fire had only made him more compelling. They were both breathtaking, radiating an aura of power and charisma that was impossible to ignore.
"You know us, don't you?" Natasha pressed, her voice barely above a whisper, but laced with a dangerous edge.
Ibnor's heart leaped into his throat. He opened his mouth to deny it, but no sound came out. He was paralyzed with fear, his mind racing, desperately searching for an escape, a way out of this impossible situation.
Clint's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting between Natasha and Ibnor. He remained silent, allowing Natasha to lead the interrogation, but his posture was tense, his hand still subtly closer to his sidearm.
"I… I…" Ibnor stammered, his voice catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. "I… I don't understand…"
Natasha's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "Don't you? Because it sounded an awful lot like you know our names. Our first names. That's not something just anyone knows."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His tongue felt thick and clumsy, his throat constricted with a sudden dryness. He didn't want to explain his situation; the very idea was preposterous. He didn't even know how to begin to explain it. Where would he even start? How could he possibly convey the sheer absurdity of his reality?
'Hi, I'm from another universe where you're fictional characters played by Scarlett Johansson and Jeremy Renner?' Yeah, that would go over well. He could almost hear the incredulous laughter, the accusations of delusion. The thought was so absurd, so utterly unbelievable, that a nervous, almost hysterical laugh threatened to erupt from his chest.
He clamped his mouth shut, forcing the laughter back down, his throat tightening with anxiety. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, his palms growing clammy. He could feel the weight of their combined gaze, and it was far more intense than any movie screen could ever convey. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a bug pinned beneath a microscope, every detail of his being laid bare for their scrutiny. He could feel the weight of their judgment, their suspicion, pressing down on him like a physical force.
The van sped through the night-time streets of Budapest, the silence in the back broken only by the hum of the engine, the faint squeak of the van's suspension, and the frantic thump-thump-thump of Ibnor's heart. He sat huddled in the corner, pressed against the cold metal of the van's interior, his knees drawn up to his chest as if trying to make himself as small as possible. He was trapped, caught in a situation he didn't understand, surrounded by people who were clearly dangerous, and he had just made a very big mistake. The casual familiarity of using their first names had been a catastrophic error, a clear indication that he knew more than he should.
The silence was thick with tension. Natasha hadn't taken her eyes off him since asking her question, her gaze unwavering, almost predatory. Clint, though silent, mirrored her intensity, his eyes narrowed, constantly shifting between Ibnor and the road ahead, his hand still resting close to his sidearm. The atmosphere in the van was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken questions and barely suppressed suspicion. It was clear they weren't going to let it go.
Ibnor stared out the window, the blurred city lights streaking past like streaks of neon paint against the dark canvas of the night. Each passing streetlight cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting the fear and confusion etched in his features. He wondered if he'd ever see his own world again, a world where these people were just images on a screen, where their adventures were just stories told for entertainment. The thought brought a fresh wave of despair, a crushing sense of homesickness for a reality that now seemed impossibly distant. He closed his eyes briefly, picturing his home, his friends, his family. The images were vivid, but they felt like memories of a dream, ephemeral and intangible.
He opened his eyes again, the harsh reality of his situation crashing down on him once more. He was here, in this world, with these people, and he had no idea what was going to happen next. He felt a shiver run down his spine, a premonition of danger that settled deep in his bones. He could feel Natasha's gaze on him, a constant pressure.
Finally, Clint spoke, his voice low and serious, breaking the tense silence. "Where did you hear those names?"
The question hung in the air, demanding an answer. The casual ride was over. This was an interrogation, albeit a mobile one. The van continued to speed through the night, the city lights blurring outside the windows, but for Ibnor, the world had narrowed to the confines of the van and the unwavering gaze of the two agents. His heart pounded in his chest, and he knew, with chilling certainty, that whatever he said next would determine his fate.
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This is a bait, please read my other fan fic, I'm Really Not the Dragonborn