His aim rings true. As it always does, as it always should. Clint's fingers twitch, setting arrow to bow, even as the Initiate's fingers come up gleaming indigo, ripping metal from his back, snapping the arrow like a toothpick between his fingers. Yeah, there's no way Clint doesn't see that, what with his vision. No way he doesn't get what it means. Some might say its best not to feel fear -- they're wrong. An edge of fear keeps you sharp, keeps you running for your life, and Clint is right there with it.
The Initiate runs, eats up ground between them like nothing else. Clint can't out run him, not like that, but fuck he'll try. He moves, readying again even as he goes, gone coldcoldcold and not letting his aim waver.
Clint's never been one to give up, not even when he still had Loki curling in his mind.
Initiate levers up a piece of broken building, and Clint takes his chance. His arrow flies, but he's already moving, dodging out of the way of that flying debris. The ground is uneven, unsteady, and though Clint has long legs, he's not built to handle running blinding and shooting through this terrain. To turn his back on Initiate is a to sign his death warrant, but not doing it offers the exact same fate.
He goes with his gut.
Behind him, the Initiate swings, club screaming through the air far too silent for him hear. But Clint runs, scrambling to higher ground, quick, teeth grit and eyes narrow with determination. If he could take out an arm, a leg, put an arrow through gut or throat or eye. Then maybe, maybe. But they're too close, and the Initiate doesn't let up. Still, he tries.
no subject
The Initiate runs, eats up ground between them like nothing else. Clint can't out run him, not like that, but fuck he'll try. He moves, readying again even as he goes, gone coldcoldcold and not letting his aim waver.
Clint's never been one to give up, not even when he still had Loki curling in his mind.
Initiate levers up a piece of broken building, and Clint takes his chance. His arrow flies, but he's already moving, dodging out of the way of that flying debris. The ground is uneven, unsteady, and though Clint has long legs, he's not built to handle running blinding and shooting through this terrain. To turn his back on Initiate is a to sign his death warrant, but not doing it offers the exact same fate.
He goes with his gut.
Behind him, the Initiate swings, club screaming through the air far too silent for him hear. But Clint runs, scrambling to higher ground, quick, teeth grit and eyes narrow with determination. If he could take out an arm, a leg, put an arrow through gut or throat or eye. Then maybe, maybe. But they're too close, and the Initiate doesn't let up. Still, he tries.