Chapter 7: The Avengers

On the abandoned streets of a ruined city, the wreckage of a Quinjet lay scattered near a cluster of crumbling buildings.

The aircraft was barely recognizable—its body torn apart, with jagged shards of twisted metal littering the area. Black smoke still rose from the wreckage, carrying a heavy scent of charred remains into the air.

Around the wreckage lay a grim scene: scattered corpses, their bodies mangled and disfigured by the force of the crash. Their twisted limbs and broken forms painted a chaotic, macabre tableau. A nauseating stench of decay hung heavily in the air, blending with the acrid smoke to create a setting both haunting and grotesque.

It was clear that an epic battle had taken place here.

Amidst this apocalyptic scene, a zombified Colonel America feasted on a piece of flesh, his face smeared with blood. Chewing noisily, he turned to Hawkeye and sneered, "Delicious, Barton. This city is full of delicacies, an endless feast just waiting for us."

He opened his mouth, revealing razor-sharp teeth, bits of bloody meat clinging to his lips.

Hawkeye clutched his shoulder, where a grotesque wound oozed fresh blood. The flesh around the wound was torn and raw, forming a grotesque mess of exposed tissue. The blood seeped down his arm, staining his once-purple attire a dark crimson.

The edges of the wound were swollen and pulsing with an ominous energy. The infection was spreading, and Hawkeye could feel it. He knew what it meant to be bitten by Colonel America—his fate was sealed.

Hawkeye groaned in pain, his body wracked with tremors. Hunger clawed at his mind, but he held onto a fragile thread of humanity, resisting the monstrous temptation.

"No! This isn't how it ends!" Hawkeye's voice trembled as he struggled to speak. "I won't become like you, Colonel! Tony… SHIELD… they'll find a cure for this. They have to."

Colonel America let out a guttural laugh, his eyes mocking and deranged. He tore another bite from the flesh in his hand, blood spurting as he chewed with grotesque satisfaction.

"You're wasting your breath, Barton," he growled between bites. "There's no escaping this. Join me, and together we'll savor the divine gift of hunger."

His smile no longer bore the heroic charm of the leader he once was. It had become a twisted expression of madness and cruelty. His eyes gleamed with frenzied delight, as if reveling in the gruesome feast before him.

Hawkeye bit down on his lip, his hands trembling as he tried to focus on anything but the gnawing hunger tearing at his resolve. Memories of his family, his comrades, and the countless battles he had fought flooded his mind. Their faces, their warmth—these fleeting memories were his last defense against the encroaching darkness.

A piece of meat landed near him with a sickening splat.

"Come on, Clint. Stop torturing yourself. Just one bite," Colonel America taunted.

The meat exuded an enticing aroma, its texture glistening as if perfectly cooked. Hawkeye's body betrayed him, saliva pooling in his mouth as the scent infiltrated his senses. His resistance began to falter.

Hawkeye picked up the meat with trembling hands, his thoughts racing. Just one bite, he rationalized. If Morbius, the living vampire, can drink blood and still be a hero, then maybe I can, too. Plenty of goth girls adore him, right?

He bit down.

The taste was overwhelming—a flood of metallic richness that filled his mouth. For a fleeting moment, Hawkeye felt an intoxicating wave of euphoria. His body seemed to regain strength, as though he had been transported back to his days at the circus, free of burdens and responsibilities.

Deep within, a voice screamed in protest, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming allure of the flesh. He chewed and swallowed, unable to stop himself, the flavor too irresistible to deny.

"This… how can it taste so good?" Hawkeye muttered through a mouthful of meat. "Steve, I… I can't fight this anymore."

Standing nearby, the zombified Colonel wiped the blood from his mouth with a tattered sleeve. His lifeless eyes lit up with a sinister grin as he picked up his shield, its once-pristine surface now marred and tarnished.

"Didn't I tell you? No one can resist this gift," he gloated, his laughter echoing through the empty streets.

Hawkeye didn't respond. He crouched over the meat, devouring it with growing fervor.

"Let's move," Colonel America commanded in a rasping voice. His steps were unsteady, his gait uneven, but his determination was clear. "We're taking this gospel of hunger to every corner of the world."

Hawkeye, now fully transformed, rose shakily to his feet. His eyes were vacant, his face devoid of its former determination and resolve. He followed the Colonel, his movements robotic and unnatural.

As they trudged away, Hawkeye glanced back briefly. His gaze fell upon a tattered beige trench coat caught on the shattered windshield of the Quinjet. The wind tugged at it, causing it to sway gently.

The coat, once vibrant, was now faded and worn, its fabric riddled with tears and grime. Its cuffs were frayed, and faint bloodstains marred the collar.

For a fleeting moment, Hawkeye's expression flickered with pain and regret. He strained to recall the past—the honor, the duty, the camaraderie—but the memories slipped away like sand through his fingers.

He turned his back on the coat and staggered after Colonel America, their figures growing smaller against the desolate backdrop.

A gust of wind tore the coat from the windshield, sending it tumbling through the air. It drifted aimlessly before landing in a pool of crimson blood, its fabric soaking up the liquid and deepening in color.

The coat lay still, its once-proud form now a silent witness to the tragedy of the world it had belonged to. It trembled slightly in the wind, as though mourning the loss of what had been.

But no matter how it moved, the coat could not change the grim reality around it. It remained motionless in the pool of blood, a forgotten relic in a broken world.