[3rd Person]
The air in the Black Swan reeked of stale beer, cheap disinfectant, and desperation. Grim, a mercenary whose face was a roadmap of past mistakes and narrow escapes, leaned back on a grimy stool, wiping down the barrel of a heavy-caliber pistol with practiced ease. Across the warped wooden table sat Rook, fresh-faced and eager, his combat fatigues still too crisp, his eyes wide with the kind of ambition that usually got men like him killed.
"You hear a lot of names whispered in joints like this," Grim rumbled, his voice gravelly as he reassembled the weapon chassis. "Boogeymen for hire. Ghost ops. Solo artists who can clear a city block for the right price."
Rook nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Yeah, like... like the Chemist? Heard he can brew a poison that cripples you with fear before it stops your heart."
Grim snorted, a sound like tearing canvas. "Amateurs. Gimmicks. You wanna know who makes the real killers sweat? The ones who've seen everything, done everything, and they still flinch if you say his name in the wrong company?"
He paused, screwing the suppressor onto the pistol barrel, the click echoing unnaturally in the low murmur of the bar. Rook held his breath.
"White Death."
The name hung in the air like a shroud. Rook frowned, trying to place it. "White Death? Never heard..."
"That's the point, kid," Grim cut in, his gaze distant, remembering. "He doesn't leave witnesses. Doesn't leave tracks. Stories are all you get, passed around like wildfire by the few who glimpse the aftermath and live to regret it."
Grim's eyes glazed over slightly, a flicker of old terror in their depths. He saw them, the 'Wolfpack.' The elite bounty hunters, the kind who tracked meta-humans for cartels. Six of them, hardened, wired, armed to the teeth. They'd cornered a target, a high-value analyst who'd leaked some critical data. Secure building, reinforced entries, thermal imaging. The target was supposed to be theirs.
But then... silence. No alarms, no shouting. Just... silence. Grim had been on overwatch a mile away. He saw the thermal readouts of the Wolfpack flicker and disappear, one by one, like candles snuffed by an unseen hand. No heat signatures escaping the building. No sign of forced entry or exit from the roof.
Grim remembered the drone footage they'd managed to get hours later, after the coast was supposedly clear. Bodies. Not mangled, not butchered, but precisely, surgically neutralized. Weapons disassembled and scattered. Communications gear reduced to sparkling dust.
Grim blinked, the phantom chill receding. "Last job I heard about was a team of six specialists. High-profile. Vanished. Building was clean, save for the mess they left." He gestured with the pistol. "Took 'em apart. Didn't use overkill. Found one guy gagged with his own bootlaces, tied to a pipe, untouched otherwise. Just... taken out of the game."
Rook swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach. "So... White Death does... what?"
"He finishes the job," Grim said flatly. "Whatever it is. Wetwork, extraction, protection... he doesn't fail. And he doesn't get caught. They say he can be anyone, anywhere. Watch you from across the street and you'd never know. They say he knows your moves before you do. That's why the nickname stuck. Leaves everything... stark. Clean. Like bone after the wolves are done."
Rook looked around the dingy bar, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable. The shadows seemed deeper, the other patrons less like weary drinkers and more like potential threats or, worse, unseen watchers. He lowered his voice. "So... where is he now?"
Sound of city wind, distant sirens.
The target was below. Moving through the urban landscape with deceptive grace and practiced ease. Clint Barton. Hawkeye.
Clint Barton crouched low on the rooftop, the familiar weight of his bow a comforting presence in his hands. The city stretched out beneath him, a vast, breathing entity of concrete, glass, and perpetual motion. Above, the perpetual urban haze dulled the stars to faint pinpricks. It was a Tuesday night, quiet by the city's standards. Too quiet for Clint.
This patrol felt… routine. Mundane. Responding to domestic disturbance calls, scouting out drug deals in alleyways, breaking up petty theft rings. Important work, sure. Necessary. But it wasn't the sky-splitting, world-saving, robot-invasion kind of important he'd become accustomed to. He felt the familiar itch of restlessness under his skin, a low hum of energy with nowhere to go.
He traced a slow path along the rooftops, his kevlar boots silent on the tar and gravel. His eyes, honed by years of impossible aiming, scanned the streets below, the flickering lights of bodegas, the lonely glow of apartment windows, the pools of shadow in the alleys that could hide anything. He saw a couple arguing beside a hot dog stand, a lone figure hurrying down the sidewalk, a taxi weaving through traffic. Just life happening.
His comm crackled, a low-priority chirp. He tapped his ear-piece. "Barton."
"Hey, Clint. It's Echo." The voice was tight, strained, barely above a whisper. Echo was a low-level informant, good at sifting through street chatter and fringe forums, usually bringing him tips about upcoming gang activity or black market arms deals.
"Hey, Echo. Everything alright? You sound jumpy."
"Yeah, uh... maybe. Look, something weird's been happening. Just... trying to get a bead on it."
"Shoot."
"It's... the vigilantes. The small fry ones. The guys and gals trying to make a difference in their neighborhoods, you know?"
Clint shifted his weight, his interest piqued slightly. "Yeah? What about 'em? Running into trouble with the cops?"
"Worse. They're... disappearing. Just... gone. No trace. The Owl, down in South Harbor? Nobody's seen him in a week. Night Heron? Same. Street Phantom? Vanished mid-patrol three nights ago. These aren't rookies, Clint. They've got skills, hideouts. They don't just walk off the face of the earth."
Clint frowned.
"Disappearing, huh? Could be anything, Echo. Maybe they ran into something bigger than they expected. Maybe they pissed off the wrong people. Or maybe they just decided the hero gig wasn't for them and bailed." Clint said, trying to sound reassuring, though a small part of his mind filed the information away. Coincidence, probably. The city was a dangerous place, heroes or not. Sometimes wires got crossed, and people just... disappeared. It happened.
"Yeah, maybe," Echo agreed, though his voice held a tremor of doubt. "Just... felt weird. Too many, too fast. Thought you should know."
"Appreciate it, Echo. Keep your head down. Let me know if you hear anything solid, anything that ties 'em together."
"Will do." The line went dead.
Clint lowered his hand, scanning the street again. Missing vigilantes. He dismissed it again. Probably nothing. Just the usual urban decay claiming another few hopefuls. He stretched, feeling the familiar stiffness in his shoulders, the old injuries protesting silently. Just another Tuesday night. Routine.
What Clint didn't know, couldn't possibly sense, was that the shadows weren't just shadows. They were watching. The city wasn't just a stage for his patrol; it was a hunting ground, and he was the unwitting prey. He was being tailed, meticulously, flawlessly, by a ghost he didn't believe in.
The Ghost moved through the city not just in the crowd, but as the crowd. He was a chameleon, not just changing color, but texture, size, presence. He was Taskmaster, though the whispered legend of "White Death" held a certain appeal, a stark poetry that resonated with the clinical purity of his craft.
Earlier that night, he'd been an elderly man, shuffling along the sidewalk a block behind Barton. Gray, thinning hair, stooped shoulders, a slow, uneven gait aided by a cane. He'd worn worn-out clothes, smelled vaguely of mothballs, and kept his gaze lowered, seemingly lost in the quiet misery of age. But behind eyes that were watery and rheumy to any casual observer, his mind was a whirring engine of observation and analysis.
He noted Barton's cadence – the subtle shift in his weight before he took a quick, silent step onto a fire escape. He recorded the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw when he spotted something mundane but slightly out of place – a trash can knocked over in an unusual spot, a light left on in a supposedly vacant building. He cataloged the way Barton's eyes scanned the horizon, not in a wide, sweeping arc, but in focused, rapid bursts, prioritizing areas of concealment or potential ingress.
Hours later, the old man had vanished into the stream of commuters spilling out of a subway station. Moments later, a bike courier emerged from the same station, a blur of motion and nervous energy. Zipped-up fluorescent jacket, helmet, backpack bulging with phantom deliveries. Taskmaster, now this archetype of urban urgency, wove through traffic, sticking to bike lanes and sidewalks, his progress mirroring Barton's rooftop path.
He observed Barton's combat stance, even in its relaxed state – the balance point, the way he held his arms and shoulders, the potential lines of movement. He noted the slight sigh Barton let out after the brief conversation with his contact, the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders – boredom? Frustration? A moment of vulnerability.
His mind was a vast, interconnected database of learned skills and observed behaviors. He could replicate any physical action he witnessed, from a gymnast's tumble to a sniper's breath control. But mere mimicry was basic. True mastery lay in understanding the why behind the movement, the personality shaping the action, the weakness hidden within the strength. And that required observation. Intimate, tireless observation.
He ducked into a bustling market, the courier persona melting away as he navigated the stalls, his movements now those of a casual shopper browsing for late-night groceries. He brushed past Barton, who was briefly descending to street level to investigate a suspicious van. Barton didn't spare him a second glance. Why would he? Taskmaster was just another face in the crowd, another pattern in the urban tapestry.
He watched Barton's interaction with the van's occupants – a drunk tourist and a nervous street artist. Barton handled it with calm authority, a touch of weary humor. Taskmaster noted the subtle tells: the way Barton kept his hands visible but ready, the precise distance he maintained, the angle at which he stood to maximize his field of view while minimizing his own exposure. Routine, yes, but even in routine, there was data. Every movement, every interaction, every facial tic was a data point. Input for the algorithm that was Taskmaster's adaptive mind.
He wasn't doing this for money. There was no bounty on Hawkeye, no contract pushing him to stalk the Avenger through the night.
His internal monologue, a detached, analytical voice, confirmed his purpose. Subject: Hawkeye. Barton, Clint. Skillset: Exceptional archery, hand-to-hand proficiency, tactical awareness. Threat level: Significant in his element. Challenge level: High.
There was no emotional malice, no personal vendetta.
Suddenly, a different current ran through the analysis, a thread of something akin to anticipation.
The vigilante disappearances. A pattern break. Subject has been alerted, albeit peripherally.
This changed things. Routine was boring. Predictability was uninteresting.
He dismissed it. Coincidence. Error in judgment. Taskmaster's lips, momentarily those of the casual shopper, curved into the slightest, almost imperceptible smile. Good.
He changed direction again, melting into the flow of foot traffic heading towards a busy transit hub. By the time he reached the entrance, he was a different person entirely – hurried, briefcase in hand, phone pressed to his ear, muttering about a late meeting. Just another face in the rushing tide.
But his attention remained fixed on the figure high above, moving from rooftop to rooftop, unaware.
He needs to be tested, the thought formed, clear and precise in Taskmaster's mind. Routine dulls the edges. Complacency is a weakness. These disappearances are a catalyst.
The game was changing. The hunt was escalating.
He's a challenge, Taskmaster thought, the thrill of the chase a cold, sharp sensation in his chest. I want to see if the archer can dance with death.
And he would make sure Hawkeye had to dance. Whether he knew the music had started or not. The night was still young. The dance had just begun.