Thanks to his enhanced body, the giant—bleeding so hard it had pooled into a thin red stream—still clung to a shred of life. He rolled his eyes toward the man standing by his ear. He couldn't feel anything below his neck.
"Do it." Atlas slanted his gaze at the gold-armored figure blurring at the edge of his vision, his voice edged with mockery and disdain.
Clint, wrapped in a gold power suit, sprang lightly onto the giant's chest, planting a boot on the massive letter "A."
His right arm came up. A crossbow bolt was already knocked and aimed straight at Atlas's widening pupil. Hawkeye's face was calm and steady; his eyes locked to the giant's as if trying to see straight through to whatever passed for a soul.
"Do you regret it?"
"Never."
Silence thickened until time itself seemed to stop. Then Hawkeye's finger squeezed.
The bolt shrieked away.
Crack. It punched through the pupil, shattered the eye, and buried itself in the brainstem. The giant's body spasmed once, then went utterly still—no sound, no breath, just a mountain settling into the dirt.
Hawkeye lifted his head. The circus and fairgrounds around them were a sea of fire now, the once-noisy rides swallowed by roaring flame.
Oddly, the crowds were gone. Every last bystander had cleared out, as if they'd realized miles ago this place wasn't safe.
Clint let out a breath. At least no innocents would get caught in the aftershocks.
His gaze drifted over the burning wreckage—then his hand shot out and snatched a yellowing photo that drifted past, already kissed by flame. He thumbed out the singe along its edge.
A superhero team photo. Arms over shoulders, tired grins at the camera—easy warmth, easy unity.
Front and center stood a tall man with a bold "A" on his chest. Square jaw, confident eyes. His big hand rested on the shoulder of a teammate with a purple bow across his back. They looked close.
"How's revenge feel?" a voice called from above.
Clint turned. White Night and Wanda were descending, several big canisters wrapped in red energy bobbing at their sides.
"Not bad."
Hawkeye's mouth crooked. He slid the photo into a storage pocket and sniffed once.
Seeing the old archer's headspace steady, White Night shrugged and handed him a canister, gesturing at Atlas's wounds. Funny thing about giants—bigger targets made collection easier.
He and Wanda hadn't just watched the show, either. They'd swept the grounds, nudging all the civilians away with a subtle tug on their minds, leaving them with nothing but a hazy memory: an archer and a giant, a fight, and then smoke.
After that, White Night had lit the blaze, smudging the details of what really happened.
Because someone with a bullseye on his forehead would probably come sniffing around.
Red Skull's field marshal—Mr. Bullseye. The necro-lock implant in his skull could only read lies by heart rate. Crude, but effective on frightened bystanders.
And those people wouldn't be lying. They were just too rattled to remember. Bullseye, who hadn't killed a superhero in decades, wouldn't waste time leaning on the innocent.
White Night watched Clint fill the canisters from the wound, and kept thinking.
Bullseye would get excited, grab his toys, and start tracing Hawkeye's path. With luck, he'd flush Bucky Barnes out too—recycled by Red Skull as a Winter Soldier again.
All that was secondary, though. The real prize was the blood steeped in Pym Particles. Unless a host deliberately purged them, those particles lingered in the bloodstream for decades—no more, no less.
Long, repeated exposure could even teach a body to secrete Pym Particles on its own. Biology is wild, isn't it?
Next step: back to the shop to try isolating them, then put them to work.
They stepped into the familiar workshop. The Craftsman was there, busy as ever, forearms slick with sweat and a satisfied curve to his mouth.
He looked up, spotted the Ant-Man helmet in White Night's hands, and smiled.
"Ah. Ant-Man's helmet. You want it working again?" He wiped his brow and set his tools down.
White Night nodded, passing the helmet over. "We also brought blood samples loaded with Pym Particles. When you have a minute, see if you can pull any out."
His eyes slid to the wall—rows of gold power suits stood neatly at attention. Clearly, the Craftsman hadn't wasted their time away.
"Not a small ask," the Craftsman said, setting the helmet on the bench. "But if you trust me, I'll give it everything I've got."
He unpacked delicate tools and began to map the helmet's guts. Piece by piece, the interior opened under deft fingers; micro-adjustments here, pressure there. His hands danced a tiny, precise choreography.
White Night and Hawkeye watched in silence.
Minutes later, the tools stilled.
He withdrew his fingers, reseated a handful of minute components, snapped the shell back into place, and ran a final check. It had gone smoothly—almost too smoothly.
"Should be good. Try it."
"Here's hoping Dwight shampoos daily."
Clint grabbed the helmet and slid it on. Soft boot-up tones tickled his ears; he squinted, focused—
Hundreds of ants streamed in across the windowsill and gathered in front of him, circling in tight little rings.
Once Clint seemed to have the basics down, the Craftsman turned to the blood canisters. He tapped one with a knuckle; the glass answered with a low hum.
He sighed and scratched his head. These little miracles weren't his specialty. Extracting the particles wouldn't be simple.
But there was another path.
Maybe he could build a machine that auto-separated Pym Particles.
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