Way Walker Chronicles: Avengers

Clint Barton

“I can’t tell you that.  It would destroy your team.  I’ve said that before, you know.  Repeatedly.”  The girl’s chin was set at a stubborn angle.  The fire in her eyes promised a fight if I kept pushing.  Fortunately, I like fighting.

“And I’ve said ‘that’s not good enough’ before.  Repeatedly.”  By God I was going to get answers, even if it meant pissing off the extra dimensional geek girl.  “Phil Coulson was a good friend, the guy who made me an agent.  Without him I might have gone a very different route.”

“Robbing banks like Barney?  Yeah, I can see how you’d be grateful, but no go on the info.  There are some things you just don’t need to know.”

Wait, how the hell did she know about my brother?  It couldn’t have been in a movie because I apparently don’t rate a movie.  Not that I’m mad or anything, well actually, yeah, I’m a little mad.  “How do you know about Barney, stalker lady?”

“Firstly, I told you these stories were comics before they were movies.  Your comic-book explains in detail just about everything in your origin story; the car accident, Carson’s, the thefts, the Swordsman, your brother, all of it.  And secondly, I’m a fan, not a stalker.  I’m no more stalking you than you stalk Lara Croft.”

We were getting off topic.  “Not the point.  The point is, what does that shirt mean?”

“It means you don’t own the pain of his death!” The shout burst out like a gunshot.  Her face was flushed, and I could have sworn I saw tears forming before she blinked.  That suspicion was confirmed when she spoke again; her voice choked with either pain or anger.  “It means you weren’t the only person to grieve.  You’ve heard that denial is one of the seven stages of grief, right?  Well after The Avengers, every fanboy-or-girl and their dog was in massive grieving.  Coulson was well-loved, and then the director pulled a Wash on him….Many fans refused to accept it, fought back, conspiracy theories spread like crabs at an orgy, all of it with the hash tag CoulsonLives. In this world he was mourned by what, the hundred or so people who called him friend?”  Her voice stabilized, but the anger in her eyes remained hard and unflinching.  “In my world he was mourned by millions.  A great tide of soul-tearing pain so intense that even the non-fans felt it.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, and I’m sure she saw my skepticism because her eyes went all soft and distant as she continued, obviously remembering something.

“I was in a midnight showing when I saw it.  All about me, die-hard fans, people who had just stood in line for hours, shot to their feet and cried foul.  I saw grown men cry, I heard people who would have moments before sworn Joss Whedon was God curse his name for taking Coulson from them.”

“The guy who does Buffy?”  Now that was a non sequitur.  “What’s he got to do with it?”

“He directed the film.  My point though is that you think that just because you saw him in the flesh, you have the monopoly on grief.  You don’t.  He was no less real to me, my pain no less real than yours.  So please, for the love ‘a God, leave it be.”

Her emotions seemed real; her eyes had gone misty with memory as she spoke.  I believed her.  Suddenly it seemed selfish and petty to keep her tied to a chair.  “Untie her.  She’s not the threat I thought.”