Chapter Text
The street lay before them in almost complete darkness. The blackness was broken only by the light coming from the windows of the apartments and the lights of the cars. An eerie atmosphere clung to the air and triggered an uneasy feeling inside Clint. Beside him walked Natasha Romanoff, her hands buried in her pockets. On her face, he could not see any expression of uncertainty, while the red-blue light of the police sirens illuminated it. Instead, she appeared as level-headed as most expected her to be. However, Clint knew her well enough to know that there were many other sides to her and that her demeanor was sometimes just a facade.
"I have a bad feeling about this," he voiced what he had been thinking since Fury had called him in the middle of the night to give him a new assignment. Natasha released her gaze from the surroundings she had been observing and turned to her partner, "Me too. Probably that's not unjustified either. If Fury calls us in the middle of the night to look at a crime scene, it can't be good."
"Did he tell you what it was about, exactly?" echoed Clint. While he didn't assume Fury had told Natasha anything more, it was still worth a shot.
"No, what do you expect him to say," she answered immediately. There was no trace of reproach in her voice, and he thought he detected a cramped smile on her lips. A reaction that astonished him. As for Natasha, however, he had learned never to assume anything. Ever since he had met this woman, she had always been good for a surprise.
At first, he had understood why Fury didn't want to give her some information. She had just joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and not at Fury's behest, but because Clint had defied his orders and brought her along instead of killing her. Fury had told him then that he would be responsible if she turned out to be a traitor and had only used him to steal information for other intelligence agencies. While Clint hadn't believed she would do that - he remembered too well the night he had tried to kill her and the look in her eyes that had stayed with him ever since - he had understood at the time why Fury was being cautious. Months had passed since then, however, and they had officially been made a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. after passing the necessary tests together. He had hoped that Fury would show more trust towards Natasha, but so far that didn't seem to be the case. He hoped that it would change after this mission.
"That means we're going in here completely blind?" in Clint's mouth it hardly sounded like an inquiry, but almost like a statement. He didn't like stumbling into a mission completely unprepared. He preferred to observe from above, knowing his surroundings and what he was up against. In this matter, he lived up to his alias. He was like a hawk, observing his surroundings from the air before swooping down on his prey.
"Apparently," she replied with a shrug. If it worried her as much as it clutched Clint, she didn't let it show. It was a habit that had driven Clint crazy at first. Especially when he knew she was miserable, and she wouldn't let him get to her. She had gotten better at letting down her guard and letting him know something was wrong when they were alone. In public, on the other hand, she still refused to do that, and he wondered if that would ever change.
"It wouldn't be the first time," she added.
She wasn't wrong about that. It wasn't the first time Fury had let them walk blindly into something they had no idea about. The last time hadn't been long enough for his liking.
"I hope this time he just doesn't have any information to give us," Clint grumbled lightly, "I'd rather that than him just merely withholding it from us."
"That makes two of us," she managed to reply just before stopping.
They had reached their destination. In front of them, the yellow flagging tape was blowing in the wind, with several police cars lined up behind it.
"Great, flagging tape," Clint whispered more to himself than to Natasha. In his eyes, it couldn't be a good sign. If it were anything harmless, the whole street wouldn't already be blocked off, and several police cars would be blocking the road. According to this, they had hardly been called here because of theft or some other harmless thing.
A police officer approached them and lifted the tape a bit so the two agents could walk under it.
"Good to see you," he greeted the two. His expression was rigid as if his features were petrified. He nodded first to Natasha and then to Clint.
"Romanoff, Barton, this way," he ordered and started moving.
Briefly, they both exchanged a glance with each other before Natasha followed him and Clint went with her. They walked past several cars, their lights cutting through the darkness until they arrived at a building entrance. A group of police officers had gathered in front of it. Clint had seen enough crime shows to realize that some of them were part of the forensics team.
"You need to put on gloves," one of the men spoke up, his clothes covered by a protective suit, "Not that you're going to contaminate my crime scene."
He pulled out two pairs of gloves and handed them to the two. As he did so, he turned to his colleague who had led them here.
"Are you sure we need S.H.I.EL.D. here?" he asked, eyeing the agents with an inquiring look.
"Yes, I'm sure of it. After all, it affects them from now on, too," this answer made Clint sit up and take another look at Natasha. What did he mean that it affected the organization from now on as well? Was that the reason why they were suddenly brought to a case that only the police had been investigating before? S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow been dragged into it. In what way he could not imagine. After all, hardly any civilians knew of its existence.
Natasha's face showed no visible reaction, but the expression in her eyes reflected what Clint felt. If it directly affected S.H.I.E.L.D., it couldn't just be a case the police couldn't handle. There had to be something more behind this that they hadn't been told about yet.
He quickly pulled on his gloves and then turned to the man who had led them here.
"Can we go in then?" now that the conversation was taking on a more serious tone, he wanted to know for sure what was going on.
"Of course," the latter answered immediately, interrupting his conversation with the trace employee. The latter's concerns he pushed aside and waved the two agents inside the building's entrance.
Clint followed him without hesitation and climbed the stairs to the upper floor with Natasha behind him. As far as he could tell, the house was small and housed only three to four families in the apartments. The hallway was bare, and the walls looked sterile. What it was about, he couldn't possibly read from the surroundings.
"Why is it about, exactly?" he finally voiced the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since entering the scene. On their own, no one seemed to think to enlighten him about it.
"You'll see any moment now," the policeman postponed the answer one more time, however, leaving Clint unsatisfied. Not letting that show on his face was harder for the archer than for his partner.
In front of the only door that was open, several people were gathered, wearing the protective suits as the forensics man at the entrance to the house had worn. In their hands, they held cameras with which they were securing evidence.
"This way," the policeman spoke up, leading them to said door before stopping, "I'm going to hand you over to a colleague who will show and explain everything to you."
Before either of them could say anything in response, he beckoned a man over from the apartment. This one wore the same protective clothing as the others in the area, making him a little different from them.
"Hello Mister Wiley," he greeted the man as he joined them and nodded in the direction of the two agents, "These are the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in charge. Please show them the crime scene and explain everything. I need to clear something up downstairs."
"All right," the latter nodded and then turned to the agents, "Good to have you here. Now the leads are still fresh."
The policeman said a curt goodbye to them and left them alone with the forensics officer. The latter waved them behind him into the apartment, which was filled with people. Clint let his gaze wander. The light emitted from the lamp above his head didn't utterly illuminate the hallway, and he squinted his eyes slightly to make out everything. Through an archway, he could see into the kitchen, but since the man just walked past it, there didn't seem to be anything of interest to the inside. The level of people working around them made him suspect that this could not have been a simple theft.
Clint leaned over to Natasha a bit and whispered, "I still have a bad feeling. This doesn't look like an easy investigation."
"I agree, but I'm sure they'll tell us why we're here in a minute," Natasha tried to reassure him in a lowered voice, "Even though I don't like all the secrecy."
That Natasha felt the same way put Clint's mind at ease. That they agreed was the main thing for him. So far, they had managed to solve every problem as long as they did it as a team.
Suddenly, the man stopped abruptly in front of a door before turning to them, "I must warn you. The image you're about to see in this room is not without its own merits."
Clint swallowed hard. With that, it was clear that this was no trivial matter.
"All right," Natasha answered in his place, thus making the man take a step to the side. Thus the access to the room that lay beyond was free and they could catch a glimpse inside. Natasha was the first to enter, followed by Clint.
The room was bathed in similar dim light as the rest of the apartment. The furniture suggested that it must be the occupant's bedroom. The curtains in front of the large windows were drawn shut as if trying to seal off the outside world from what was happening inside the apartment.
Then Clint's eyes fell on the bed, and the blood froze in his veins. The sheets were soaked in deep red blood. No doubt it came from the man on the bed. His eyes were wide open, his gaze fixed upward. There was no expression in them, but Clint had the feeling that the last thing he felt was fear.
The man's face was untouched, but beneath it stretched the horror that had come true. At the neck, where the windpipe was, a small knife was pierced. Blood ran from the wound, soaked the blade of the knife, and trickled down the neck. Red against the white of dead skin. The man's torso was covered by a shirt whose fabric had been cut in several places, revealing the stab wounds beneath. As far as Clint could tell, there were five to ten. Dead, however, the man must have been after only a few.
The agent felt his lungs constricting in his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. In his mind's eye, the scene of the murder played itself out. It wasn't the first time such an image had opened up before him, but even after all this time, he wasn't immune to it.
"That's Agent Crane," Natasha groaned from beside him, making Clint stir again. He turned his head toward her, but she had her eyes straight ahead. Her lips had parted slightly as her eyes flew over the body. The mask of the usually composed woman seemed to crumble.
It took a moment for his brain to process her words. Then he looked back at the corpse. Again his gaze wandered over the face. On second viewing, the man's features seemed more familiar. His nose was crooked and his chin pointed. The cheekbones were high and stood out. The rest of the body was so disfigured that the resemblance to Agent Crane had escaped him, but now that Natasha mentioned it, Clint could notice it too.
"That's right. It's Agent Crane," the voice of the man from Forensics came through muffled to his ears, despite his sharpened hearing aids.
"That's why we called you. Before, he only ever attacked police officers," he continued his explanation, "Now he seems to be targeting S.H.I.E.L.D. as well. We're not getting anywhere with him. Especially not with his riddles."
"He?" now Clint was listening, "You know who's behind this."
"No, not really. We only know that the same person is behind it," he enlightened him, "We called him 'Enigma'."
"How do you know it's always the same person behind it?" now Natasha huffed.
"He told us himself," the man disengaged himself from the door frame against which he had disengaged himself. He pushed past between the two agents and walked towards the bed. However, he did not turn to the dead man but began to fiddle with the wallpaper above it. Surprisingly easy he managed to detach it from the wall. Underneath, however, not only the wall came to light. On the stone, someone had smeared a message in red letters in large block letters.
"Hello my little sheep," Natasha slowly read what was written there, "I'm watching you and can't wait to play with you. Your bad wolf."
Her words sent a cold shiver down Clint's spine.
"Is that blood?" he asked, the words again running through.
"Yes, we checked, and it belongs to Agent Crane," the man answered her question.
For a moment, he averted his eyes, trying to sort out his thoughts. Agent Crane, just like some police officers, had become the victim of a killer that the police had not been able to catch until now. In the process, he left messages, like a signature, to let everyone know he was behind it. But why was he now messing with S.H.I.E.L.D., too?
"By sheeple, I think he means us," Natasha concluded.
"Yeah, I think so, too," the forensics officer replied, "He must have known that we would turn to S.H.I.E.L.D. if one of the agents was killed. He's constantly playing games with us, and so far, we've always been the losers."
"We should go back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and tell Fury about what happened, Clint," the redhead now turned to Clint and got him to look at her. Clint nodded in agreement. The police were already gathering all the leads and would probably let them have that information. Besides, this way he could escape the sight of his dead colleague, even if he thought he would never be able to forget this image. It had burned itself too deeply into his head.