[He's falling. He's barely conscious as he's falling, but he knows he's falling, because the world exploded around him, and the floor under his feet no longer exists. The glitter and sparkle of glass, metal, fire, and some extremely powerful gemstones fall past him. His ears are ringing, that point where all sound becomes one long droning tone after explosions. The phone that was just in his hand has rocketed off to parts unknown, probably destroyed, and with it, his most tenuous grasp on having all his hopes and dreams coming true. If nothing else, he can still hear inside his head the sound of his wife's voice. In this moment, he's not convinced it wasn't a dream. In this moment, limply plummeting, he wonders what Natasha thought before she, too, hit the rapidly-approaching ground.
Which is to say: when he is faced with a selection of post-apocalypse-ified vehicles to ride on to one of the few surviving cities in a strange and oddly beautiful setting, he's pretty sure that this has to be some kind of purgatory. Like, that's what it has to be, right? The way everything around him twisted and swirled and changed and--all the things he wouldn't be able to put into proper words if he tried, and ended up here instead of at the bottom of a pile of rubble? He died, and now he has to Mad Max his way to...something.
When he's presented with an extremely modified 1962 Corvette that's seen better days, he knows this is a cosmic joke. She isn't cherry red, and he knows she won't be able to fly, but those are just a matter of time, he thinks. Are there other options that might work better? God, yeah, probably, but he's decided that if fate's gonna sit Lola's grizzled older sister in front of him to drive around in, the least he can do is be grateful for the pang of nostalgia and loss and the hint of good memories simmering beneath that, somewhere, somewhere he can't quite reach yet, but it's not the worst he's ever felt.
Huh. Maybe that thread of semi-realized hope did something for him after all.
There is no top per se, but a rollcage and a tarp to tie into place overtop when there's weather will have to do. Clint rolls down the highway, wind blowing through his shaved down midlife crisis halfway-to-mohawk hair through a landscape that looks like something out of Strange's mysticism, when he rolls to a stop.
It isn't the fact that there's debris on the road that has him stopping, because there's been plenty of that here and there. It's that it's a distinctly body-shaped lump stretched out across the asphalt. His fingers drum on the wheel as the engine idles. Could be anything. Anyone. Some sorry son of a bitch that got dumped. Could be a trap, get some innocent passers-by stopping like he's doing to go check it out. Most likely trap, the way its laid out with almost some kind of care.
He sighs. Turns off the engine. Grabs, of all things, a fucking bow from the passenger seat, and stands.]
Look, if anyone's waiting out there like you're gonna get anything decent by jacking people who just fell from the sky, I'm here to tell you that you're an idiot, and you should come on out and give this person a burial. Or at least make sure he doesn't turn into roadkill.
[There is no immediate reply. He waits a few more prolonged seconds, looking around, before he sighs and gets out of the damn car.]
I get it, anytime anyone presents 'the easy way or the hard way', everyone always picks the hard way. You're picking the hard way, I'm picking the hard way, we're all stubborn as hell, and someone's gonna get hurt for it.
[Maybe try to get Clint to move his ass, or warn him of the trap he seems to be walking into in the most annoyed fashion, or--I'm not your dad, how do you roll on up on this situation?]
arrival
Which is to say: when he is faced with a selection of post-apocalypse-ified vehicles to ride on to one of the few surviving cities in a strange and oddly beautiful setting, he's pretty sure that this has to be some kind of purgatory. Like, that's what it has to be, right? The way everything around him twisted and swirled and changed and--all the things he wouldn't be able to put into proper words if he tried, and ended up here instead of at the bottom of a pile of rubble? He died, and now he has to Mad Max his way to...something.
When he's presented with an extremely modified 1962 Corvette that's seen better days, he knows this is a cosmic joke. She isn't cherry red, and he knows she won't be able to fly, but those are just a matter of time, he thinks. Are there other options that might work better? God, yeah, probably, but he's decided that if fate's gonna sit Lola's grizzled older sister in front of him to drive around in, the least he can do is be grateful for the pang of nostalgia and loss and the hint of good memories simmering beneath that, somewhere, somewhere he can't quite reach yet, but it's not the worst he's ever felt.
Huh. Maybe that thread of semi-realized hope did something for him after all.
There is no top per se, but a rollcage and a tarp to tie into place overtop when there's weather will have to do. Clint rolls down the highway, wind blowing through his shaved down midlife crisis halfway-to-mohawk hair through a landscape that looks like something out of Strange's mysticism, when he rolls to a stop.
It isn't the fact that there's debris on the road that has him stopping, because there's been plenty of that here and there. It's that it's a distinctly body-shaped lump stretched out across the asphalt. His fingers drum on the wheel as the engine idles. Could be anything. Anyone. Some sorry son of a bitch that got dumped. Could be a trap, get some innocent passers-by stopping like he's doing to go check it out. Most likely trap, the way its laid out with almost some kind of care.
He sighs. Turns off the engine. Grabs, of all things, a fucking bow from the passenger seat, and stands.]
Look, if anyone's waiting out there like you're gonna get anything decent by jacking people who just fell from the sky, I'm here to tell you that you're an idiot, and you should come on out and give this person a burial. Or at least make sure he doesn't turn into roadkill.
[There is no immediate reply. He waits a few more prolonged seconds, looking around, before he sighs and gets out of the damn car.]
I get it, anytime anyone presents 'the easy way or the hard way', everyone always picks the hard way. You're picking the hard way, I'm picking the hard way, we're all stubborn as hell, and someone's gonna get hurt for it.
[Maybe try to get Clint to move his ass, or warn him of the trap he seems to be walking into in the most annoyed fashion, or--I'm not your dad, how do you roll on up on this situation?]