Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Fifty-Six: Employment

The unaptly named 'Hill' was a petite woman who moved in a spritely manner: light on her toes. She bore semblance to a pixie with her fastidious features and striking eyes. A lopsided smile was lingering on her luscious lips, breathing colour across the apples of her cheeks and her dainty nose.

"Barton, I want you to meet Maria Hill..." Fury gestured to her formally: Hill curtsied, and a sweeping swathe of hair fell over her eyes; severely dark, juxtaposed with her cobalt blue eyes.

"Hill, this is Clint Barton; he's going to be joining S.H.I.E.L.D.-" I could see her measuring me up with her meticulous cerulean stare, an unspoken trial of my utility. "-Would you care to show him the ropes?"

"Wait, what?" I pivoted and pleaded with my eyes for my guides to remain grafted to me. "Where are you going?"

"I'm the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint, I don't have time to play tour guide. Besides, I've got some explaining to do to our commander and chief, concerning why I've hired a fugitive..." Fury pinched the bridge of his nose, wrinkling his skin. "I'd give an eye to avoid explaining this mess..." He huffed.

"Coulson?" I looked to the kind-faced man with his light laughter lines and wispy dark hair.

"Sorry, slick, I've got my fair share of explaining to do too. Pierce isn't happy. I'd be lucky if he didn't take an axe to me." The mighty man looked meek, shuffling in his polished patent brogues.

"I don't bite," Maria chuckled, flashing me a shark-like smile. She circled me like a predator before nodding down the corridor. "C'mon, I'll show you around. I'm sure we can reconvene with Agent Coulson and Director Fury later..." Maria sheepishly smiled at her superiors, earnestly trying to look eager.

"Thank you, Maria..." The Director tipped his head before swivelling on his heel, the tail of his raven-black coat swishing behind him as he stalked away; the stockier Coulson bounding beside him; trying to match his sovereign strides.

Maria was reasonably reticent as she showed me around the facility; whether that owed to the scholarly company or my own uncommunicativeness, I was unsure.

The rest of the amenity was just as abject; colourless cement ceilings and floors, whitewashed walls and metal doors. Calling it minimalist would've  made it sound cosmopolitan, it was unromantically utilitarian. The only individuality in the institution was the sepia portraits photographed on the wall: 'Howling Commandos', more of Stark and Carter, and assorted ones of academy alumni.

I was first shown to my bunk room, 'easy to remember' Maria remarked, noting my name plastered on the plaque placed on the door. Sentimentally, I traced the lettering, etched in silver. It almost seemed prestigious. Pertinent. Purposeful. Hilarious, right?

My bunk room resembled a bunker; just as bland on the eyes as chalk is to the palette. And like I had chalk on my tongue, my features shrivelled up disagreeably. I'd desecrate the diplomatically dressed room in no time; spray my vagabond code onto the wall - violet would accent the grey beautifully -, litter it with coffee mugs, and tack goofy photos of me and Katie onto the wall.

My vault was just one of many holes chiselled into the corridor, and after exiting the barracks, we head over to the main training centre; crossing the courtyard again. Still the rain wept from the heavens, falling from the sodden and sunken face of the sky and forming puddles on the pavement. As we entered the chilly atrium, rain still rattled out a racket on the roof.

Beyond a pair of rickety double doors was a gymnasium: young adults skirmished on crashmats, hands scuffing, feet sliding, and limbs scrapping. Others were sparring with punchbags, fists and feet meeting the pliable firmness of the sack; sending it flailing and twizzling.