Three weeks ago, Clint had gone missing. At first, Tony had tried not to worry about it, to ignore that the archer was gone. He always came back, after all, no matter what had pissed him off.

Fourteen days ago, Tony sat down in his office for a serious search. It was Pepper's idea, her request, really, and he didn't have much to do that day anyway. So he sat down and started looking and, no matter what program he ran, nothing came back on Clint.

Five days ago, Tony finally admitted to himself that he was just a touch worried. No matter what he said, Clint was a valued member of their team. The archer made work easier, which meant that Tony had less to worry about.

That was it.

That was the only reason he was worried - and nothing anyone said could make him say differently.

Two days ago, he recieved a message from Fury. There were HYDRA agents spotted in town. They had killed themselves before any information could be gathered.

Eight hours ago, Tony had sent the group of Avengers that made up the main team out to scour the city and its surrounding areas. Due to the fact that there was such a huge spand of area to be checked, and that he was more than a touch worried now, they had all been seperated. No teams. Just an Avenger a place.

It made sense, when thought about on a large scale. The more areas that they looked through, the more likely it was that they would find Clint. The quicker things would get back to normal, and Tony would be able to brush off that nagging feeling of guilt that ate away at his chest each day

hour

minute

second that ticked by and no word was heard of.

On a smaller scale though, sending one person out to look through each spot was only making the work more difficult. Places such as the old docks just outside of town, which was where Steve had been sent, were harder to look through without a group. It was too big of a place with too many nooks and crannies and too much that could be over-looked.

The fact that it hadn't actually been used in years and, as such, had no lighting of any form didn't help in the slightest.

During the day, it hadn't been too much trouble to look over things. But as the sun started to set and the shadows started to grow it turned into a different story. The passages between abandoned warehouses turned into a maze, the piles of half-broken crates turned into blockades in his path, the noise of waves hitting a concrete shore became a constant that wared at Steve's nerves and made him flinch.

In the steadily growing darkness, he got turned around and thrown off the meticulate path that he'd been following, the only way he could ensure that he checked through every building. Somehow, he ended up at the most western edge of the docks right where the manmade structures ended and the Wilderdeem Forest began. And, by complete chance, he caught sight of something that shouldn't have been there out of the corner of his eye.

A path.

It was a small one, formed by someone walking in the same spot over and over again. Just flattened weeds and branches kicked to the side, but it was there and it was visible and it shouldn't have been. The Wilderdeem Forest was a landmark in their town and off limits to everyone. Even he didn't have the jurisdiction to go traipsing through those trees, not unless he went straight to Fury on the matter.

And, for the briefest of moments, Steve considered doing just that. Going to get that little slip of paper that would allow him legal access, because that was the right thing to do. The right thing, but not the smart thing, and was this war just yet?

He felt like it was. Like there was more lurking in those woods aside from a bear, and that there just wasn't time to go and see the SHIELD officer.

So Steve followed his gut and went into the woods, boots following that well-worn trail. It went deep, deep, deep into the darkness of the forest. Branches hung low, scraped against Steve's face, his cheeks, and he had to move slow to try and avoid breaking more of them then need be.

He may have been trespassing, but he didn't want to destroy the proud forest.

Eventually, the path twisted and the sea was once more echoing in his ears. Water slamming into rocks and a single flickering light, hooked to the side of an old cabin. The front window was broken and the door sat ajar, and Steve couldn't stop the way his stomach clenched because he just knew -

this wasn't normal and it wasn't right and how many times had this happened to him before? Had he found abandoned outposts with dead inside, with forgotten men and women who had just been left? How many fellow soldiers had he been forced to carry back to camp, to write letters to their loved ones for? Too many, far too many, and he didn't want to do it again. Not now, not with Clint -

but he took a deep breath anyway, trying to quell the rapid beat of his heart and slowly made his way inside of the anciant fishing hut.

Steve fumbled until he found the switch, not really expecting it to work. It did, though, and yellow light flooded the one room building. There wasn't much inside.

A chair.

Cut-through ropes.

Blood - and a lot of it. Dried on the floor and the wooden chair, and Steve felt hsi stomach drop when he moved over to it. Maybe it wasn't from Clint, he told himself, but some other poor soul that had wandered too far into the woods?

Except that was Clint's Comm sitting there, partially under the chair. There was no doubt about it. The design was unique to the Avengers communication devices, and Steve ran one thumb over the cold metal.

It hissed and then crackled to life.

"I don't understand why you haven't just told me yet, Hawkeye." The voice, sly and cold sounding, played out of their missing team-mates Comm Card. "It isn't like I haven't given you the proper incentive. Haven't I? Perhaps you need more?"

The Comm hadn't been built to show images. Up until recently, Tony was the only one that could record messages on it. At that moment, Steve wasn't sure whether he should be glad for that or not. It kept him from seeing whatever sad shape Clint was in but, in turn, that was the biggest drawback. He had no idea how bad off the archer was.

"Fuck off, Morrow." Clint's voice this time. "You don't have enough 'incentive' to make me tell you anything."

The other mans voice, Steve realized, was distinct even when it sounded like he had just swallowed a large glass of salt-water. Raspy. Weak. And still flinging insults like they were bread crumbs for the birds.

"Oh? Is that so? Because I think I've got something that will make you think twice about that." The other man, Morrow, sounded almost gleeful. Like he'd just had the most brilliant idea and couldn't wait to explain it.

The tone made Steve almost sick. He'd heard it before, several times, during the second World War. It came from the cruelest of men on both sides. From the ones that, when captives were taken, enjoyed retrieving information about the other side. The ones that were the coldest of the cold and the meanest of the mean. Right before they struck.

"Let me guess. Is it your face?" Clint asked driely.

There was a snort before Morrow's voice sounded again. "You might be joking now but, by the time I leave here, I doubt you'll be so brave."

The sound of boots hitting concrete filtered through the piece of electronic in Steve's hand. Rustling of fabric. A soft clink, most likely from the Comm being dropped to the floor.

"Are you still ready to joke with me, Little Man?" Morrow asked.

And that was when the screaming started.