Clint's Close Call

He didn't even turn around right away, confident in his ability to deal with whatever was coming.

However, as he pivoted to dispatch the intruder, he realized something was horribly off.

The shadow looming over him was massive—far too large for a goblin.

A sinking feeling gripped his stomach as Clint's gaze traveled upward.

It was a towering, humanoid monstrosity, far more brutal and menacing than the goblins.

"Fuck," Clint hissed under his breath. "What the hell is this… and why is it even worse than those little bastards?"

The comms crackled with intermittent static.

He barely caught snippets of Tony's irritated cursing and Steve's orders to adjust their strategy.

But Clint wasn't paying attention anymore.

His focus was entirely on the hulking beast now within striking range.

The creature was terrifyingly strong.

Close combat wasn't an option, but it was already too late to retreat.

Before he could think of a plan, the monster's razor-sharp claws slashed downward.

Acting purely on instinct, Clint raised his arm to block the attack, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow.

Crack.

The sickening sound of bone breaking rang out.

A searing pain shot through his body, making his vision blur for a split second.

Gritting his teeth, Clint kicked the monster hard in the chest, using the recoil to propel himself out of its immediate reach.

He landed in a crouch, gasping for air.

Warm blood poured from the gash on his arm, pooling on the rooftop beneath him.

His right arm hung limply at his side—likely fractured—and every movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing through him.

"Damn it," Clint muttered, clutching his injured arm.

He forced himself to his feet, determined not to go down without a fight.

But just as he steadied himself, a wave of dizziness hit, threatening to topple him.

The creature, sensing weakness, charged forward with his claws aimed at his chest.

…This is bad.

The split-second hesitation had cost him.

He knew he couldn't fully evade the attack. With no better options, Clint twisted his body to protect his vital organs, bracing himself to take the hit.

He could only hope the beast wasn't strong enough to tear his shoulder clean off.

And then, in that critical moment—

A figure darted out like a flash of lightning, vaulting onto the monster's shoulders.

Even with Hawkeye's keen eyesight, Clint could only catch the blur of their movements.

Nimbly dodging the creature's sharp claws, the person's hands shot down, locking around its jaw.

With a sharp twist, they snapped the monster's neck cleanly.

Clint: …

Well, damn.

Although he knew his current predicament was mostly due to his own carelessness, Clint's pride took a serious blow.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Before the corpse even hit the ground, the figure flipped down gracefully, landing lightly on his feet.

Lirael panted slightly, glancing over at the stunned Hawkeye, his face flushed from the exertion of a dead sprint.

"You… you-you-you…"

It was hard to decide which was more shocking: that he had just been saved by a pastry chef or that said chef had dispatched the monster so effortlessly.

Clint remained sprawled on the ground, utterly dumbfounded.

This earned him several concerned glances from the elf, who seemed genuinely worried that Clint might have hit his head during the scuffle.

"Clint? Are you okay? Tony said something seemed off on your end."

The dropped communicator crackled to life with Steve Rogers's concerned voice, breaking the awkward silence.

Noticing that Clint was still too dazed to respond, and Steve's tone was growing more urgent, Lirael hesitated briefly before picking up the device.

"Agent Barton is injured," Lirael reported, his sharp gaze lingering on Clint's mangled arm.

The edges of the wound shimmered faintly with a dark mist, an ominous sign that made the elf frown deeply.

"His arm needs treatment. A normal human can't handle the dark energy of an orc. If this continues, he will become dangerously weak."

"Clint's injured?"

Steve's voice faltered for a moment, clearly thrown by the unfamiliar speaker.

However, he quickly recovered, latching onto the most critical word in their explanation.

"Wait… did you say an orc?!"

"Yes, an orc. Or so I believe." Lirael glanced at the corpse he had just slain, his expression laced with doubt. "But these creatures are different from the ones I've encountered before. They shouldn't be here. I have no idea what's going on."

There was no mistaking the vile aura of an orc.

They were the sworn enemies of all life in Middle-earth—symbols of corruption and destruction.

Lirael's keen senses left no room for error.

However, he had noticed something different.

These orcs were larger, stronger, and more agile than those he had fought in the past.

Yet they were mindless, disorganized, driven purely by primal instinct to destroy anything alive.

While their numbers posed a challenge, they were still far easier to handle than the massive, coordinated orc armies that had ravaged Middle-earth in the past.

That didn't mean there wasn't cause for concern.

"With Barton down, we've lost our archer support. What's the plan now?"

Tony Stark's voice buzzed in over the comms, punctuated by the sound of repulsor blasts.

Flying between buildings, he systematically incinerated the orcs and goblins clinging to the walls.

At the same time, he scanned for the creatures' point of origin using thermal imaging.

"Without him taking care of the ones hiding in the dead zones, my back feels a little too exposed. You know, being the only one up here makes me a prime target."

"Wait, the only one up there?" Before Steve could respond, Sam Wilson cut in, clearly annoyed at being overlooked. "What am I? Invisible?!"

"You're just gliding, Bird Boy," Tony retorted. "And don't take it personally. I'm just saying whoever designed that bird costume of yours was a hack. You've got a genius right here who could upgrade it, and you've never even thought to ask."

"What? You never told me you could upgrade it!"

"I thought it was obvious."