[ Waking up to a bunch of pained groaning isn't new, sadly. Waking up in a strange room, also not new. Clint doesn't jump awake; he just lets out a tired groan of his own and drags a hand over his face, and it isn't until something else interrupts — a warm tongue?? — that he really snaps to it. ]
Hey. Hey—
[ Lucky. The dog lets out a small whine as he gently bats him away, then Clint finally sits up and takes in the details. Clothes on. Chinese food… moldy. No weapons. He drags himself to his feet and wanders over to the door, still a little bleary, and as soon as he opens it Lucky bolts out and down the hall. ]
Hey!
[ The dog — some kind of lab mix, missing an eye — doesn't stop, though he does nearly bowl into whoever happens to be a few yards down the corridor. ]
B | COMPUTERS, KITCHENS, SHOOTING RANGE
[ He can't find Lucky. Obviously. Clint eventually doubles back to his room to finish snooping around, and when he heads out to explore the rest of the compound, he's got a folder unceremoniously crumpled up and jammed into one of his back pockets.
He wastes some time in front of the rows of computer screens without successfully guessing the password (not admin or password or 42, go figure). Finds the kitchens and starts digging around in the cupboards like he owns the place, looking for something specific.
By the time he gets outside, it's midday. Stops mid-step when he spots the shooting range, and a few minutes later he's got a bow and some arrows. Draws to test it out, aiming at a worn target. Back muscles tighten and lock, slow your breathing, exhale—
Someone's close. He relaxes his hand and the arrow lodges itself in the target, then he lowers the bow before glancing over. ]
clint barton | marvel 616 | ota!
[ Waking up to a bunch of pained groaning isn't new, sadly. Waking up in a strange room, also not new. Clint doesn't jump awake; he just lets out a tired groan of his own and drags a hand over his face, and it isn't until something else interrupts — a warm tongue?? — that he really snaps to it. ]
Hey. Hey—
[ Lucky. The dog lets out a small whine as he gently bats him away, then Clint finally sits up and takes in the details. Clothes on. Chinese food… moldy. No weapons. He drags himself to his feet and wanders over to the door, still a little bleary, and as soon as he opens it Lucky bolts out and down the hall. ]
Hey!
[ The dog — some kind of lab mix, missing an eye — doesn't stop, though he does nearly bowl into whoever happens to be a few yards down the corridor. ]
B | COMPUTERS, KITCHENS, SHOOTING RANGE
[ He can't find Lucky. Obviously. Clint eventually doubles back to his room to finish snooping around, and when he heads out to explore the rest of the compound, he's got a folder unceremoniously crumpled up and jammed into one of his back pockets.
He wastes some time in front of the rows of computer screens without successfully guessing the password (not admin or password or 42, go figure). Finds the kitchens and starts digging around in the cupboards like he owns the place, looking for something specific.
By the time he gets outside, it's midday. Stops mid-step when he spots the shooting range, and a few minutes later he's got a bow and some arrows. Draws to test it out, aiming at a worn target. Back muscles tighten and lock, slow your breathing, exhale—
Someone's close. He relaxes his hand and the arrow lodges itself in the target, then he lowers the bow before glancing over. ]
Sorry. Did you say something?