Owner	Pose
Clint Barton	Although Hawkeye works in state-of-the-art facilities such as the Avengers Mansion and the SHIELD's Triskalion, Clint Barton doesn't live in such a grandiose place. Most people inheriting a decrepit building in a seedy neighbouring would rather sell it right away, but Clint Barton is /not/ most people. Instead, he decided to make it his home and found himself defending the building's tenants against a highly violent gang, called the Hood. Yes, in his freetime, Clint plays solo hero. "Sure didn't plan on buyin' the farm today!" Clint exclaims, then adding under his breath, "And it's my day off!" Right now, Clint is on the rooftop of his appartment house, lying down - rather, pinned - holding his right arm against his chest. He's wearing a light purple T-Shirt and a pair of jeans, on which can be seen a few drops of blood. Well, maybe more than a few. At the other end of the roof top, two guys, uncounscious, fell, hit by concussion arrows. And by their side, a black box of about one square foot rests on the rooftop. With the sun going down, it might be difficult to notice this black box, although Clint knows very well of is presence. And most importantly, of its nature.
Shannon	Who needed Uber or DoorDash, when one had wings? Finally... FINALLY... Shannon had managed to get to one certain shawarma establishment in the city without incident, actually buy a little bit of the stuff to try, and planned on enjoying her feast at home. She's dressed for flight in a sturdy pair of flannel-lined blue jeans, some soft but sturdy black boots, and a cream-colored turtleneck shirt that, knowing her, very likely had a t-shirt or similar layer beneath it. Her hair is tied back to keep it from being a problem in-flight, though she's far from flying at top speed.      A nice, simple feast at home, right? Right!      Wrong!      Her flight path this time took her over the general area where, at this moment, Clint seemed pinned down on the rooftop. The echoes of gunfire reached her, enough to get her attention and have her head on a swivel. She had no intention of being shot out of the sky today!      However, someone on the rooftop below her seemed to have already run into trouble. Rolling her eyes, she grumbles softly, muttering, "Just once... just for bloomin' once... I'd like to actually get some shawarma home and eat it in peace without things going pear-shaped!"      A healer's work was never done.      Snapping her wings inward, she dives down out of the sky, heading for a point just between the buildings where, if anything were fired at her, it would be more likely to hit concrete or brick than her. And, somewhere where hopefully she could see who was in trouble.
Clint Barton	Even sporting new additions to his body in the form of brand new nasty scars to be on to his left thigh and right arm, Clint's eyes rarely miss anything going on around him. This is especially true when he's minutes away from being obliterated into his smallest particules! And so he spotted a glance of Shannon as she manoeuvers between the buildings. "If ye'r an angel coming to bring me to heavens, I'm not ready just yet!" He calls out, fairly sure he knows it's Shannon, although not positively certain. "And if not, well... mind to give me a hand? Or an arm?" While calling out to Shannon, Clint succeeds in crawling to the small raised border along the rooftop, and to lean against it. "Fuck, that one hurts like a biatch." he comments under his breath, trying to press against the wound on his thigh.
Shannon	"Ha. Many things I am, but an angel isn't one of them. I just look like one." Oh, yes. Sure enough, it was indeed Shannon. She lands next to Clint on the rooftop, crouching down as low as she can and keeping her wings tucked in tightly. The bags are pretty much gone at this point--maybe someone down on ground level got a free meal from heaven! She taps something just under the left wrist of her shirt, and her wings vanish from view.      "I fucking hate using those things, but sometimes it's handy," she mutters. She can hear the tightness in Clint's voice, and see the blood on his shirt. "Ooof. Let's get a quick look at that. How'd it happen?"
Clint Barton	Clint greets Shannon with a smile, although a little less broad than usual due to the pain. Ah, here's the cavalry! With no Starkphone nor any other means of communication, he's very lucky that the young - and nice looking - woman was flying by. "Well, long story. Let's say, welcoming party à la Hood. I'll explain later... huh, not much later, cuz we've got like ten minutes to live if we remain here." Clint winces as he tries to get on his feet, which is impossible with a half-busted thigh. With a groan, he sits back down, pointing in the direction of the two men still uncounscious at the other side of the rooftop. "Bad news is, I can't leave. See that box over there? It has a counter telling you it will blow up the neighbouring before the cops can finish their donuts. I need to deactivate it. But there's a catch. Of course."
Shannon	"Always is. What's the catch, and how do you disarm something like that?" Shannon purses her lips, steeling herself for what was likely to be a rather nerve-wracking, surreal experience. This was not something training had prepared her for. "Damn it, Jim, I'm a healer, not E.O.D.!" she quips, cracking something of a light smile to keep spirits up.      As Clint tries to get on his feet, she frowns, taking a quick look down the rest of his body, and wincing. "Frak. First thing, we're probably going to have to set a tourniquet on that leg, or you're not going anywhere even when we get a hold of emergency servies."      It's to the little brown bag that seemed to be forever on her person, with a pair of gloves and... yes, she actually did have a tourniquet in there! She smiles a bit apologetically to Clint. "Sorry, this probably isn't going to feel too good..."
Clint Barton	Shannon works quickly, but still, time is running. Not resisting her ministrations - like he could anyway - Clint's priority at the moment is not his wounds, but rather the black box on the other end of the rooftop. "Yeah, tourniquet, sure," he replies, probably not really giving it much thoughts and surely unprepared for the additional pain it will bring. "You get 10 feet from this box, and kaboum," he explains, "I need my bow and quiver," he adds. "Down the stairs, door with the Christmas ornament, under the bed, old black sport bag. Can you bring it to me? I mean... once you done tourniquetting?" Hopefully, he didn't lock the door to his appartment. Not sure what he could do with his bow and arrows, with a busted arm. But hey, he /must/ try something. On that line of thoughts, he looks up at Shannon, a grin forming on his face. "And the magic words: pretty please and quickly?"
Shannon	Shannon nods. "Will do. But my first priority is keeping you alive so that getting that bow will actually do you some good." Untangling the tourniquet from her bag, she moves to set it in place, looping it in place about six inches above the wound. "Okay, take a deep breath for me and brace yourself. Ready?" Once the all clear is given and Clint's had a chance to brace himself, she begins to tighten the windlass on the tourniquet until the bleeding slows, then finally stops. There's a genuine look of sorrow in her eyes for a moment, as if in silent apology for what had to be done.      "Right. Door with the Christmas ornament, sport bag under the bed. Back in a flash!" And just like that, she darts through the nearest doorway inside, keeping a healthy distance between her and that black box, to search for the bag that was needed to save the day....
Clint Barton	Oh. The. Pain. It takes all of Clint's ego - and he has a lot to start with - to not cry out in pain. Motherf..... Good thing is, Shannon left just afterward, so she didn't see him rolling his eyes, about to faint. He did /not/ faint, not at all. Nope. Just... was breathing deeply, that's it! Good, bow and arrows are coming. All he needs now is to make sure his arm can be used. Which, after a quick test at raising said busted arm, only succeeds in providing more unwelcomed pain and a few more blood droplets. Dang, out of commission. For a moment, listening to Shannon running downstairs, he has time to think clearly. His arm not being of any help, all he needs is... another set of arms! Right, and probably an Archery 101 speed course with a death penalty in case of failure.
Shannon	Thankfully, Clint's ample ego was spared Shannon witnessing any show of distress on his part, as she darted inside to retrieve the aforementioned bow and arrows. She's fairly quick about it, too, the sound of her footsteps coming back up the stairs heard not much more than a minute or so later--and she's not empty-handed. She's got the sport bag slung over her shoulder, the young woman darting over half-crouched, to deposit the bag at his side.      Ever the healer, she frowns, seeing what looked like a bit more blood on his shirt than before. If the bag contained what she suspected it did, then it looked as if her trip inside would be fruitless. "Soon as this is over, I'm pinging Methuselah to get you to where that can be taken care of." She slides the bag over to him, a tight little smile curling the corners of her mouth upwards. "So if you're gonna cuss, get it out of your system. What's next, chief?"
Clint Barton	Shannon's attitude brings a bright smile on Clint's face. Efficient, volunteer, with just enough bravado in it. The archer also reminds himself that she is, also, jail bait. Well, in his book anyway. "Naw, leave the ol' man out of it, he'd having his evening geritol." The last thing his ego would allow at this time, is that Cap be alerted. Oh, he'd hear about it to the end of times. "I'll be fine after a couple days. Been there, done that, got the bloody t-shirt." Yeah right. In the meantime, time is running. They only have a few minutes left before all goes BOOM. With capital letters. "Ok, here's the deal. We need the green bow and the quiver out," he says, pointing at the sport bag. "I'll tell you what and how, you'll do the shooting." He pauses, then adds, grinning, "Only two shots... sorry, ran out of silly-putty chasing Thor around the other day."
Shannon	"I'm not kidding about calling him. Bruised ego aside, I'd rather see you out of here alive. And you've probably got folks more qualified than me back at wherever to help you out." Shannon sighs softly, as she reaches for the bag and opens it, to retrieve the green bow, and the quiver. "I'm working my ass off on that part, believe me." Was that regret in her voice? Frustration? No, surely it must be an auditory illusion, as the teen takes a couple deep breaths, and flashes Clint a sheepish grin.      "Is this a bad time to mention I've never even picked up a bow before?"      Maaaaaaaaybe....
Clint Barton	No, no, he's not fainting when he rolls his eyes. The archer can't help grinning at Shannon's statement about her never having used a bow. But again, minutes go by. "Look, Shannon," he says in a deep, serious voice. "You don't have to stay. I could prolly crawl close enough to try and throw a silly-putty arrowhead at it." He pauses, frowning, "Seriously, I'm not sure I can." Then he reaches for the bow, holding it with his left hand. "My first bow ever," he says, with something almost emotional in his voice. "It's a 30 pounder, you can use it, not like my 200 pounder." Ah, that's why he wanted this exact bag. It contains his first, original archery set, including the silly-putty arrowheads! Offering the bow to Shannon, he nods, "You can do it. Hold it just like I do," he says, his voice quite calm. Then he reaches for the quiver, to retrieve two arrowheads that he fixed on arrows. "Don't worry that you only have two shots, we'll manage. You hold it, I aim, you release it."
Shannon	Shannon nods, and smiles grimly. "Right. Suppose if I can kneecap someone pulling a Cap with a Themiscyran shield, this should be a piece of cake." Wait, just what the hell had the girl been up to? Was there more to this one that met the eye?      She curls her fingers around the bow, and reaches for one of the arrows, nocking it. All the while, she focuses on keeping her breathing calm, steady, and even, her eyes fixed on the target black box. "Let's kick this pig."
Clint Barton	The plan is fairly simple, hit the black box with a silly-putty arrow, quickly covering and infiltrating its system with the oozy stuff, neutralizing the box before it detonates. Now, to put this plan into action, he and Shannon will have to work together as he explained. What Clint forgot to mention to her, tho, is that he's not feeling well, not at all. All ego used, and having seemingly more blood on his clothing than he thinks is remaining in his body, the archer is about to pass out. Bad timing. With great care and stiffling painful groans, Clint directs Shannon's movements, and corrects her tension over the bow string. "We're not aiming at China," he manages to jokes. Moving slightly behind Shannon, he also gently corrects her aiming. "That should do," he says in a quite, almost faint voice. "Now the trick is. Look at your target. Imagine it is someone you hate. You really hate them. And now is payback for whatever they did to you. Get some hate behind this arrow." He pauses, then nods, "OK, good to go."
Shannon	"Except I don't really hate anyone." Shannon could hear the pain in Clint's voice, and the way he was nearly worn out. Like it or not, she was putting in that call to Cap as soon as this was all over. He could chew her out later.      Huh. Okay, this wasn't quite so bad. It felt a little more natural than she expected, to hold the bow, to nock the arrow and draw the string back towards her cheek. Despite how her hands were starting to shake, it somehow felt natural to take aim at the black box, and visualize the thing painted with a great big bull's-eye on it.      What did not feel or sound natural was the torrent of 'conversational' phrases in varied languages that spilled from her lips as she missed the first shot.
Clint Barton	Clint would have appreciated the conversational comments, that is, if he could have only heard them. But even before Shannon could shoot at the box, Clint had slightly reclined, eyes rolled for good this time, leaning on the rooftop. Fainted. So it is up to Shannon, with her last shot - and a 2 minutes training - , to hit the box. In case she'd miss, she would have time to get the hell outta here. This must be a stressful experience, if any.
Shannon	If visual cues weren't quite enough, then auditory ones would certainly have let Clint know that Shannon missed her mark. Unfortunately, he was out for the count, leaving the young woman to go cold. Ice flowed through her veins for an instant, freezing her into place. Color drained from her face, as she realized that, for the moment, she really was alone on this.      She closes her eyes and forces a few more deep breaths, drawing on every scrape, every situation she'd ever been in--both with her teammates, and on her own--to melt the ice trickling down her spine. "Fear is not an option," she murmurs. "Come on, you can do this."      One arrow left. The last two minutes replayed themselves in her mind, oddly steeling her nerves. In a way, she wasn't really alone. She had one of the best marksmen ever known showing her how to get the job done.      So she'd get the job done.      Reaching for the last arrow, she nocks it, raises the bow and draws back the string, aiming. Taking a moment to aim at the black box, she uttered a soft prayer to whatever Deity was listening, and uncurled her fingers, releasing the bowstring.      Time seemed to run in slow motion for a few moments, with the arrow slicing through the air, on its way to its target....
Clint Barton	Then........... poof! Not a BOOM, even with capital letters. Shannon hit the danged box! Bullseye! The silly-putty instantly covers the box, the velocity of the arrow forcing it directly into the smallest possible holes and cracks. Maybe it wasn't such a guess from the archer, who probably deactivated such boxes before. Then the time is up. And the box remains there, along the still uncounscious Hood creeps. Behind Shannon, deep breathing returns to normal, as Clint slowly comes back from his momentary fainting. Did he notice that she actually did it? Well, they are still alive - him a bit less than her - so she did it! "That was great, Shannon," he almost whispers, "You just saved a lot of good people." He pauses, breathing deeply, "Care to... my bed?"
Shannon	Time resumed its normal shape as the arrow found its mark, neutralizing the box. Shannon can't help a little bit of a smile at that, glancing down at the bow in her hands. Only then does she hear the shifting and the change in breathing from Clint's general direction, turning about to see him. "So did you," she reminds him. "And you were injured, to boot. I'm still calling Cap, though, so you can get somewhere to be properly seen to."      Almost reluctantly, she reaches for the sport bag, handling the bow with near reverence as she sets it back inside. It was something treasured to its owner--how could she treat it any other way? "Just doing what had to be done." And, just as she was zipping up the bag, her face goes bright red, clear to the tips of her ears. "Oh, for pete's sake... right, we're getting you to a proper medical center."      But there was a smile there, and maybe her spine was a little straighter. Maybe she stood just a bit taller, even as she reached for her phone to make that call.      She only hesitates a moment, cracking a small smile. "Thank you for believing in me."