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Walking outside with Kate, hand-in-hand, the brilliantly vibrant sunlight attacked William's face, causing him to flinch. The air outside was fresh, chirpy and gladdening. The only problem, was that in the presence of the sun, the harsh, comfortable cold had cowered away in fear, replaced by the hot, painful, and uncomfortable heat. The addictive smell of motor oil entered his nostrils, and he realized that they were in a parking lot.
"We need a car.", Clint called out.
Hence, he activated his ability of echo-location and noticed a cherry red 1972 Dodge challenger. Though he was a bigger fan of German automobiles, he still had an appreciation for good ol' American muscle.
Apparently, him and Kate were on the same page, who also noticed the car, and stared at it in awe.
"Can we take this one? Man, this thing is beautiful.", she breathed out. Clint, however, had a different idea, as he broke the window of a 1977 Chrysler New Yorker with his bow. The billionaire rolled his eyes. I mean, don't get him wrong, the Chrysler was a sweet car, but it was no Challenger.
"I'm not smashing a '72 Challenger. Come on!" He managed to open the door, and began hotwiring the car. Kate and William ran to the passenger seat.
"I call shotgun!", they both yelled at the same time, then glared at each other childishly. When neither was willing to budge, Kate pouted and flashed her doe-eyes at him. He released a sigh and relented.
As she was about to get in, Clint stopped her. "No, No don't sit there. Get over here. I need you to drive."
"What? I don't know how to drive. You drive, I shoot.", she protested. Clint couldn't comprehend what she was saying.
"I'm not hearing you. You drive, okay?"
"No. Not okay. She said she doesn't know how to drive, and that never ends well. I'll drive."
"NO YOU'RE BLIND!", they both yelled out.
"NOT LITERALLY!", he fired back.
"Okay, fine. Clint you drive, Kate, you shoot. End of discussion.", he said, making hand gestures to communicate to him.
Clint sighed but agreed.
A few minutes later, the trio were finally on the road, with the tracksuits following behind them.
"How many are there?", Clint asks, his eyes still fixated on the road.
"Five!", the two young vigilantes shouted back.
William leans out the back window, and extends his arm out. His palm turns blue and grows in size, his nails turn to a drill like shape, and eject out. It hits the tires of one, causing the car to flip, and then roll on the ground.
