Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Fifty-Three: Duty

When I woke up I had a pounding headache. It was like someone had implanted church bells in my forehead, and it rung out from my temples right to the hinge of my jaw. My eyelids felt leaden; and my eyeballs even heavier in their sockets - it was strenuous just peeling my eyes open.

When I did finally open them, the room was a bleary blur. Above me, offensively bright white right was glaring down on me and whitewashed walls were a strain for my eyes to process. In the corner of the room I was sure I could make out CCTV cameras; recording my every motion and utterance. I must've looked like shit.

Blinking to dry and clear the haze, I stretched the kinks out of my cramped body; my joints clicking as I flexed and wriggled in - what was that? - A wooden chair. My arms and legs didn't get far though; they were bit into by the jaws of the cuffs snapped on me and the metal loops rattled offensively.

I groaned, my eyes beginning to make sense of the splashes of colour and blurred outlines. The first thing that drew into focus was the smug face opposite me of Junior Field Agent Coulson.

If I hadn't braved far more horrific things in my life than waking up in an interrogation unit, I might be scared. But frankly, the concept irritated me more than anything; it hindered my crime-fighting goals.

"I know, the sleep serum is a bitch, isn't it?" He quipped, notepad on the table, fountain pen weilded in the other. He looked far too smug to be sincere and I snarled in outrage at him. "Sorry about that, our agency likes to remain shrouded in secrecy, and part of that means that you can't know the location of our headquarters. Well... Not right now, anyway. Future circumstances may arise where that isn't a problem but-"

I cut him off with an injured groan. "Do you ever shut up?" I replied, my voice a dozy dehydrated husk.

"My superiors tell me it's all part of my charm. I'm one of their best interrogators for that precise reason..." He drummed his pen on the notepad, denoting his prevalence and predicament. "Which brings me to my next point, Mister Barton-"

"Don't call me that. My father was Mister Barton..." I growled, not overly fond of being reminded of the scoundrel six feet under.

And at that, Coulson quirked an eyebrow and started scribbling away at his pad, scratching out notes in jagged illegible shorthand. His lips were pursed studiously and he wrote in a hurry like he was an eager student at a college seminar; not wanting to miss a trick.

"What? What's so goddamn interesting about that?" I sat forward on the chair trying to decipher his scrawl. "Hey!" I vied for his attention. "Hey, Stromberg!" That managed to snatch his attention and he looked up, partially offended, partially entertained. "What the hell are you writing?"

"If I'm Stromberg, does that make you Triple X?" He returned with a sly smile; his eyes were twinkling with hilarity.

My brow creased, I responded without a single ounce of thought. "No!" I scoffed, offended in my manner. "I'm obviously Roger Moore!" I slumped back in my chair, and I would've crossed my arms if I could; instead I thrashed cagily at the cuffs used to detain me. "I don't know what resemblance I have to a curvaceous blonde, and by no means am I a sidekick!" I snorted at his expense.

Coulson gave me a telling look, one I could describe only like the look a teacher gives you when you're caught doing something immature in class. Though the man was perhaps five years my senior, he exuded a sense of age far beyond his years and the officious sense of authority with it.

I hated it.

I'd had enough run ins with assholes who appealed to me as father figures and then fucked me over.