Clint’s Chaos Chronicles

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know if you didn't say anything?!"

"And how the hell was I supposed to tell you if you didn't ask?!"

"…"

Could they be any more childish?

Watching the argument unfold, Lirael crouched silently beside the neglected injured party with the communicator still in hand.

This was their first time witnessing people argue so passionately in the middle of a battlefield, and it was… enlightening.

"I'm not out of commission, Stark."

Clearly, his head had taken more of a hit than expected.

After nearly five minutes of being stuck in the haze of who am I, where am I, and what just happened?, Clint finally snapped back to reality.

Glaring at the communicator, he barked indignantly, "It's just a scratch! Hand me my bow, and I'll shoot circles around you all!"

"No."

Surprisingly, it wasn't Tony who shot back a quip or Steve who tried to de-escalate.

Instead, it was Lirael.

He firmly pressed a hand against Clint's shoulder, his expression resolute.

"This is not 'just a scratch,' Agent Barton. The orc's dark energy is lethal to humans. Your wound may look small, but the corruption has spread significantly. It's already weakening your body and causing temporary cognitive disorientation. Fighting in this condition is reckless and dangerous."

"Says who?!" Clint felt genuinely insulted. "I'm fine! Better than fine! I could shoot an arrow straight through a hundred Starks without even blinking!"

"It's wrong to shoot arrows at your teammates, Clint," Steve interjected with perfect timing. "We need to focus on taking down the enemies first."

"But he's invading New York!"

"What?"

"And it had a face so ugly it could ruin someone's appetite?"

"…"

"It even almost scratched my face!"

"…Wait, are you talking about Tony?"

"I'm talking about the damn orc! When did I mention Stark?!"

"…"

The situation grew awkward.

Fast.

It was on the verge of spiraling out of control.

"Oh my god." After a moment of unspeakable silence, the CEO finally rolled his eyes. "Seriously, can someone check if his brain is still intact? I'm starting to think it's actually broken."

Even Clint seemed to realize that something wasn't quite right.

He blinked his eyes in confusion and fell silent, sitting on the ground with an uncharacteristic lack of protest.

"Alright, Clint, just stay put for now." Sighing deeply, Steve tried to maintain some semblance of order in the comms channel.

By now, handling sudden 'internal conflicts' like this had become depressingly routine.

"I'll be there shortly. Let me assess your condition before we proceed. Also, protect any civilians nearby. That gentleman seems to know a lot, and I'll need to ask him more questions."

"…Got it." Clint nodded mechanically.

You want me to protect him.

But do you realize he just snapped that orc's neck with his bare hands, Cap?

Clint glanced at Lirael, who was smiling at him with a calm, reassuring expression, then shifted his gaze to the monsters that were already clambering toward them again.

He grimaced before drawing a tactical knife from his belt and holding it out. "Think you can protect yourself, civilian?"

Lirael nodded.

"Then how about protecting me too, while you're at it?"

"It would be my honor."

Ignoring the offered knife, Lirael instead picked up Clint's fallen bow from the ground.

With a quick, almost imperceptible narrowing of their eyes, they effortlessly drew the string, nocked an arrow, and loosed it—all in one fluid motion.

As Clint watched, dumbfounded, Lirael shot him a dazzling smile.

"Almost forgot—long time no see, Agent Barton."

The words had barely left their lips when the sharp twang of the bowstring filled the air.

The arrow streaked through the chaos like lightning, embedding itself perfectly in the throat of an orc 200 meters away.

Clint: "…"

Wait a minute.

That stance.

That accuracy.

That familiarity.

And that face, which had been nagging at the edges of his memory ever since this whole mess started.

"You, you, you—!!"

Realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

His eyes widened, and he nearly leapt up from the ground.

This! Couldn't! Be!

It was that elf—the one who had mistaken him for a bird and shot him off the hospital roof!

According to an anonymous source from the Avengers—let's just say it's the Black Widow—the events of that day unfolded as follows.

After his failed attempt to assault the person who had just saved his life, a senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sat on the ground with his eyes brimming with tears, and loudly recounted, at full volume, the story of how he had been shot off a rooftop.

He also took the opportunity to curse out the family of the then-current S.H.I.E.L.D. Director—oh, not you, Coulson. It was Fury at the time.

This went on until Captain America with the shield in his hand, hurriedly arrived on the scene.

After the aforementioned agent repeatedly mixed up his own field code, the U.S. President's birthday, and Bucky Barnes' military serial number, Steve Rogers diagnosed him with mild brain damage on the spot.

He immediately contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. logistics to evacuate the agent from the battlefield for urgent medical treatment.

Meanwhile, Captain America continued fighting alongside their newly-recruited archer, making significant contributions to rescuing New York City from its perilous crisis.

"Wait, that's not fair," Clint protested from the stretcher, glaring at Natasha as a logistics agent tended to his injuries. "Fine, I'll take the first two mistakes, but why did Cap expect me to know Bucky's World War II dog tag number? I'm not in love with that guy! How the hell would I know something like that?!"

"That's part of the historical trivia section. If you'd paid attention during Coulson's briefings, you'd have remembered it clearly."

Natasha shrugged her shoulders and gave him a look of pity. "But honestly, I figured the moment you mixed up your own personal feeling, it was already clear you were in a pretty terrible state. You didn't even recognize who that walking fossil was."