For Every Sin, A Consequence.
Summary. . . . . . Barton feels guilty after events in Manhattan, needing to be alone he steals away from the others, but is he really alone?
Disclaimer. . . . . All characters belong to Marvel, I'm just loaning them from some fun and shameless Clint whump.
A.N . . . . . . . Warning, this chapter does contain the torturing of Barton, to me it's not overly graphic, but if you are of a sensitive nature, you have been warned. Thanks to everyone who took time out to read, review, or add this to any lists. I hope that you enjoy chapter 4.
Days passed by unnoticed, hours and minutes and seconds having no meaning to the man barely holding onto consciousness. A door opened upon the lone figure and a man's footsteps could be heard as he entered. His name was Joseph Gunderson, a S.H.I.E.L.D employee for twenty five years, it was his life. He'd lost marriages to S.H.I.E.L.D, lost his children to S.H.I.E.L.D, yet he loved the company, loved the job, loved the people he worked with, but that had all changed now. He signaled for the strobe lighting, that had been flashing constantly, and for the noise that pumped insistantly through hidden speakers, to be turned off, and walked closer; emotions battled within him, as he strode into the cold and damp room he had converted years ago into a cell. Hatred showed mostly upon his weary features, hatred for the man that knelt partially clothed and shackled before him; the man, who in his eyes and mind, had created so much destruction, so much death. He'd luckily been away from the Helicarrier that day and at the New York base, but he'd heard the news; heard how close friends had fallen when the first engine had blown, two incinerated completely, not even their dogtags would ever be found, two more falling to their deaths, their bodies still to be located. His best friend was also a victim, an arrow catching him as he fought to stop the invaders and protect the bridge. So yeah, he hated Barton with a passion. But he was also a soldier, and deep down he knew this was wrong, that he was disobeying direct orders to gain revenge, but that emotion was weak compared to his hate, so he swallowed it back down, and moved on over to his prize.
Grasping harshly at the short blond hair, he roughly pulled Barton's head up from where it was lolling on his chest, a sadistic laugh falling from his lips as the man groaned and struggled; he had no doubt that by now this position hurt and put pressure on his straining shoulders, wrists and arms. He'd witnessed years ago this form of confinement, and had stored the knowledge in the hopes that someday he would get to use it, even finding this building and creating this room; never in a million years though did he think it would be on a so called friendly; but Barton had stopped being called that the minute he allowed an alien God to take control of him.
He had been in the Middle East, sent there to take down a man who was on his way to becoming the next fanatical war lord, and to rescue two British aid workers he had been keeping prisoner. The take down had been easy, but one prisoner was already dead, and the other. . . . . . . . well the other was shackled as Barton was now, and once released couldn't stand without help and excruciating pain, and had damaged his shoulders so much, that as far as Gunderson knew they hadn't been repairable. That prisoners though, had been there for weeks, he wasn't going to allow Barton to last that long. He looked down at the shackles that pinned Barton's legs to the floor, forcing his ankles to bend so that his feet pointed straight. His knees were bent, his body sat upon his feet, and his arms were pulled back about a foot behind him, two more shackles encircling his wrists two links of chain conecting to another shackle that was bolted to the floor also. It strained every ounce of one's body, not allowing the prisoner to move, stressing muscles and joints, and leaving the vulnerable core unprotected; and they had taken advantage of that fact.
Baron's Vest had been removed along with his boots and socks, leaving him clad only in trousers that offered little protection from the cold; the water treatment they had administered first, seeing to that; the fetid, freezing water coating every inch of his body, invading open wounds with its bacteria and leaving his pants saturated. Infection had set into gashes the archer had received in the battle of Manhattan, leaving him shivering with cold, yet burning from fever. The strobe lights had been a constant every time he was alone, burning his retina's even through his closed lids. Noise was pumped into the cell every time it looked as though Barton might try to sleep, and more water poured over him every time he fell into unconsciousness. When he wasn't alone, Gunderson and his cohorts were there, fists smashing into his torso, his face, his straining thighs, breaking fragile ribs and creating bone deep bruises and who knew what internal damage. In what he thought of a justice, Gunderson had used an arrow stolen from Barton's supply to tear away at the flesh of his stomach and arms; the razor sharp head slicing easily through flesh, carving intricate patterns, shallow yet still painful why rubbed with with handfuls of rock salt, until he grew bored with what he considered a primitive weapon and thrust it into the archer's thigh. No wound was life threatening, just carefully controlled and applied to cause as much pain as possible. Although at times that control was severley tested as Barton stayed stoic and quiet, never uttering a scream or cry, just occasional groans slipping past dried and cracked lips; not even when during one vigorous beating he was pushed awkwardly, the bones in his right wrist snapping, the shackle biting deep into his left, and his right shoulder was wrenched from it's socket. He wanted the archer to scream, to beg for forgiveness, and the more he didn't the more Gunderson began to lose control until the beatings and torture get more and more frequent.
Now though, he felt time was running out, they hadn't seen or heard from the other so called Avengers, but that didn't mean they couldn't be close and he had one final punishment for Barton; so the verdict was about to be served. They'd had their trial, one of his trusted men standing in for Barton; they'd listened to evidence, watched and read reports, and had waited for the man to stand up for the archer, but not a word fell from his lips, so they had with ease come to a decision. Looking up to the camera that pointed constantly at the prisoner, Gunderson spoke for the first time.
"Has the jury reached a verdict that is unanimous?"
"We have." A voice crackled back through the speakers.
"On the count of treason and multiple counts of murder, what do you find the defendant Clint Barton?"
"We find the defendant to be guilty."
Turning to look at Barton's glassy and unfocussed eye, the other one still swollen shut, Gunderson chuckled. "You have been found guilty of treason and murder, by a jury of your peers, do you have anything to say for yourself before your sentence is given?" He grasped Clint's chin and slammed his jaw shut viciously, relishing the small trickle of blood that leaked out as his lip got caught in between, and his teeth ripped through the flesh, before adding. "Nothing? That's a pity, I was offering you a chance to repent, it might have changed the punishment. As it is, I see that you have no pity, no shame, no remorse for your actions, which leaves me with no other option."
Dropping Clint's head back down, he wiped dirt, blood and grime from his fingers on a pristine white handkerchief. Bending down so that he was eye level with the assassin he waited for the man's glassy grey eye to focus his way, and added. "Clint Barton, you are hereby sentenced to death."
To Be Continued. . . . . . . . . . .
A.N. . . . . . . . . Dun, Dun, Durrrrr. A cliffie! I really hope that you liked this chapter, and that it comes across as realistic, let me know. Thank you once again for stopping by, and just in case I don't post again before hand, I hope that you all have a very Merry Christmas. Peanut x