Flames licked the sky behind him, a hungry, orange glow staining the billowing smoke. Taskmaster stumbled from the maw of the ruined warehouse, each step a fresh agony. His armor, once a pristine blend of tactical plating, was charred and warped, sections missing entirely. The tattered remains of his cape trailed like a funeral shroud, catching on debris. A ragged gash tore across his side, weeping dark blood that painted a widening stripe on his leg and the ground beneath him.
His mask, the mocking skull-face, was cracked on the left side, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from a deep impact point. Through the damage, a sliver of his lower face was visible – jaw clenched tight, lips pulled thin. The exposed eye, sharp and alert despite the pain, darted across the desolate landscape of the industrial district, scanning, assessing.
He didn't look back at the inferno he'd barely escaped. There was nothing left there for him. Only the need to move, to put distance between himself and the one who had inflicted this damage. The one who, despite the disadvantage of the environment and the ambush, had proven frustratingly resilient. And who was, he knew, close behind.
Clint Barton looked at the warehouse from a distance, the air still thick with heat and the acrid smell of burning chemicals and scorched earth. The blaze was dying down, leaving skeletal steel beams and piles of rubble in its wake.
He felt a grim satisfaction seeing the destruction, but it was short-lived. He was battered himself – armor scuffed, a deep ache settling throughout his body. But Taskmaster was hurt, truly hurt. He can end the White Death forever.
He scanned the perimeter, bow held loosely, eyes sharp. Then he saw it. A dark trail leading away from the main exit, a slow, uneven drag mark mixed with blood spatters. Taskmaster hadn't just walked away; he had limped, struggled. Clint's jaw tightened. Good.
Following the trail was unnervingly easy initially. Taskmaster, despite his formidable abilities, was bleeding, leaving a map laid out in crimson droplets and scuff marks on the cracked concrete. The path snaked through the decaying heart of the industrial zone – past rusting shipping containers, beside silent, skeletal cranes, between the husks of abandoned factories. The air grew colder as the night deepened, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the mournful cry of a train whistle.
Clint moved with practiced stealth, sticking to shadows, using the hulking shapes of the buildings and machinery as cover. He kept his bow ready, a quiver full of specialized arrows he hid outside the warehouse.
The blood trail became thinner, less frequent, indicating Taskmaster was exerting better control over his wounds, or perhaps the cold was helping. But the drag mark persisted, a subtle sign of a consistent limp. Clint pressed on, his focus absolute. He ignored the ache in his own body, the fatigue trying to claim him. This was about bringing Taskmaster down.
The trail led him deeper into the district, towards the rail yards. A vast, open space, crisscrossed with tracks and punctuated by the dark masses of stationary trains. Not ideal for remaining hidden, but perhaps Taskmaster was counting on that – forcing a confrontation on his own terms.
Clint slowed his pace as he neared the edge of the yard. The air here was different – heavy with the scent of diesel, oil, and damp metal. Steam hissed and swirled from hidden vents, ghostlike plumes momentarily obscuring vision. Flickering security lights cast pools of weak, yellow light onto the tracks, leaving vast stretches cloaked in deep shadow.
He moved carefully along the perimeter, scanning the darkness between the train cars. The silence was broken only by the distant city noise and the hiss of steam. It felt like a trap, laid out in plain sight.
And then he saw him.
Taskmaster stood between two long, dark freight cars, silhouetted against a faint, diffused light source behind him. He wasn't hiding; he was waiting. His posture was weary, leaning slightly against the metal of the train, but his head was up, his gaze fixed on Clint's likely approach path. The cracked mask was still visible, a grim, damaged visage. He held something in his hand – Clint's stolen arrow.
Taskmaster didn't move as Clint stepped fully into the open space between the tracks, bow raised, an arrow nocked. The air thickened with tension.
"You should've stayed down," Clint's voice was rough, strained with fatigue and resolve.
Taskmaster offered no verbal response. He simply straightened, a slow, deliberate movement that nonetheless betrayed the underlying pain. He raised the stolen arrow, holding it up almost in salute before fitting it to his own bow, which had been hanging ready at his side.
The flickering lights seemed to mock them as the first arrow flew. Clint reacted instantly, ducking behind the sturdy wheel assembly of a nearby train car. The shot was precise, aimed right where he'd been standing. It wasn't just an arrow; it was his explosive tip arrow, fired back at him.
He peeked out, loosed one of his own – a Bola arrow, designed to entangle. Taskmaster sidestepped with impossible speed, the Bola whistling harmlessly past him before deploying and wrapping around a distant signal post. Just as Clint released the shot, Taskmaster had fired his own arrow back.
This became the terrifying rhythm of the exchange. Clint would fire a trick arrow, hoping to catch the injured mimic off guard. A taser shaft arced towards Taskmaster's chest. Taskmaster swayed, a fluid, almost boneless movement, and fired. Clint dove. A taser shaft, identical to his own, sparked as it embedded itself in the metal wall behind him. He tried a grapple hook arrow, aiming for the roof of a train car to gain elevation. Taskmaster, already mirroring the movement, launched his own grapple hook, a perfect twin, securing a position on the opposite train car roof.
It was a mirror match. Every move Clint made, every arrow he selected, Taskmaster seemed to anticipate, countering not just with defense, but with an immediate, identical offense. Clint fired three standard arrows in quick succession, trying to overwhelm Taskmaster with sheer volume and speed. Taskmaster, fluid as water, parried two with his bow before catching the third in his gloved hand mid-flight – a feat Clint had seen Natasha Romanoff perform, seemingly impossible for a normal human. Then Taskmaster fired the back in a swift movement forcing Clint to scramble for cover.
Sweat mixed with blood and grime stung Clint's eyes. His breathing was ragged. His quiver was getting dangerously light. Taskmaster, despite the visible damage, moved with a terrifying grace. He was using Clint's own tools against him like it was his own.
Clint fired his last fragmentation arrow, hoping the spread would force Taskmaster to fully expose his injured side. The arrow exploded near Taskmaster's feet, sending metal shards singing through the air. Taskmaster yelped, stumbling back, clutching his side. Clint saw his chance and sprinted forward, nocking a standard arrow, aiming for a killing shot while Taskmaster was reeling.
But Taskmaster wasn't just reeling. He was adapting. The momentary pain registered, but his eyes, even through the cracked mask, were fixed on Clint. He hadn't drawn another arrow. He'd dropped his bow. And he was charging.
Clint's heart hammered against his ribs. Taskmaster was closing the distance, moving into the range where he truly excelled. Clint had no time to rethink. He released the arrow instinctively, a last-ditch attempt to halt the charge. Taskmaster didn't dodge; he blocked it with his armored forearm, the arrow shattering uselessly.
Taskmaster was upon him in seconds. Clint dropped his bow, knowing archery was useless now. He drew his combat knife. He was a skilled close-quarters fighter, but he knew he was at a severe disadvantage against Taskmaster's instantaneous mimicry of multiple master combatants.
The fight became a blur of motion, a brutal dance under the inadequate lights. Clint lashed out with the knife, aiming for the gash in Taskmaster's side. Taskmaster twisted, a move Clint recognized as straight from Daredevil's playbook, avoiding the blade by a hair's breadth. Clint followed with a quick jab, landing a solid blow to Taskmaster's head, the impact muffled by the mask. Taskmaster staggered back but immediately countered with a powerful block that felt like being hit by Captain America's shield, jarring Clint's arm to the bone.
Clint pressed the attack, landing a series of quick, sharp strikes with his knife, forcing Taskmaster to focus on defense. He felt a savage satisfaction as the blade bit into Taskmaster's already damaged armor, scoring metal and drawing more blood. But for every hit Clint landed, Taskmaster delivered two back – a rapid-fire combination of punches and kicks drawn from sources Clint could only guess at.
Taskmaster moved with a terrifying lack of wasted motion, shifting from a powerful, grappling style like Widow's to quick, evasive footwork reminiscent of Spider-Man, then delivering focused, bone-jarring strikes like a trained operative Clint couldn't place. He seemed to anticipate Clint's every move, his body fluidity transitioning between defense and offense based on Clint's posture, his breathing, the minute shifts in his weight.
Clint managed to land a solid kick to Taskmaster's wounded side, eliciting a grunt of pain. Taskmaster stumbled back, but rather than retreating, he used the momentum to launch himself forward, executing a low, powerful sweep that Clint barely avoided. Taskmaster followed up instantly, grabbing Clint's arm, his grip iron. He twisted, a move that felt like grappling perfected, and Clint felt himself being thrown, his own weight working against him.
He hit the ground hard, the impact stealing his breath. Before he could recover, Taskmaster was on him, raining down blows. Clint tried to shield his face and chest, but Taskmaster's strikes were precise, targeting vulnerabilities. A heavy boot connected with his ribs, and he heard the sickening crack. Pain exploded through his chest, stealing his breath.
He gasped, choking, his vision blurring. He instinctively clawed at Taskmaster, trying to create space, but Taskmaster was relentless. Another series of rapid punches hammered down. Clint's grip on his knife loosened, his hand numb. It clattered away on the gravel, skittering out of reach.
Taskmaster momentarily pulled back, standing over him. Clint lay on the ground, ribs screaming, lungs burning, disarmed and defeated. He looked up through pain-slitted eyes at the damaged skull-face, the small sliver of visible jaw tight with effort, the single visible eye cold and calculating. The steam from the vents swirled around Taskmaster's legs, obscuring him momentarily, adding to the surreal nightmare.
Clint couldn't move, couldn't fight back. He was at Taskmaster's mercy, broken and spent on the cold ground of the train yard before his vision went black.