- Two Years Later - 2000 -
"Hey, sleepyhead" said a woman softly, her voice calm and warm as she leaned against Erik's shoulder, one hand resting gently over him.
His eyes stirred open slowly, then widened. That voice. That touch. It was her.
Her.
His heart skipped a beat. For a brief, fragile moment he thought—maybe all of this was a dream. This life. This reincarnation. Her death. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe she was still alive.
His breath caught as he turned to look at her.
But there was no one there.
Only the still, silent room around him. His heart thudded in his chest as reality closed its grip again, and the hope that had flared inside him dimmed—then collapsed into something else entirely.
A silent, slow-burning anger.
"...Just a dream. Again." He muttered under his breath, staring at the cracked ceiling of the motel room.
After a few minutes, he glanced at his watch then slowly got up and walked toward the bathroom.
Cold water splashed against his face. He gripped the edges of the sink, looking up at his reflection. He was eighteen years old now. His body mostly reached adulthood.
Taller. Stronger.
Thanks to his spider physiology, his body had developed in the most efficient way possible. 220lbs of sheer muscle, speed and power. A unit.
He stood at 6'6" now—at first, he was confused. Michael B. Jordan wasn't that tall. But then he remembered.. In the comics, Erik Killmonger stood just about that height. Marvel logic .. He dind't question.
He grabbed his toothbrush, going through the motions, but his thoughts lingered on the dream.
It wasn't the first. Not even close.
Almost every night since his reincarnation, she came to him. She. Their child. Their murder.
Sometimes the dreams were vivid. Sometimes fragmented. Sometimes twisted into scenes that barely made sense. But the end was always the same.
They died.
He saw them die.
Again and again.
It was like life itself kept showing him what he lost—either to punish him, or to feed the fire that smoldered inside him.
Maybe both.
He rinsed his mouth, then washed his face with cold water once more, breathing deep, willing the thoughts away.
But the fury remained. Quiet. Familiar.
Unshaken.
- An Hour Later in a Dinner in Iowa -
"Two fried chicken thighs, Iowa chops, green beans with bacon, buttered sweet corn, rice with giblet gravy, cottage cheese and peaches." Said the waitress, setting down the first tray on the table. She was in her forties, her voice warm and steady.
"And for you…" She placed a second tray in front of Li. "Iowa pork tenderloin sandwich with coleslaw."
Li looked at the spread and then glanced at Erik, shaking his head with a grin. "How do you eat like that and still look how you do?"
Erik smirked, fork halfway to his mouth. "Like this." He took a mouthful of rice, chewing deliberately, eyes locked on Li.
" Very funny.. So, who's next on your little list?" Li asked between bites of his sandwich.
Erik nibbled on his food, thinking.
The list…
He had taken it from Xu Wenwu's office, memorized every name during his absence. Names, addresses, professions—etched into his memory.
This last two years, They traveled all over the world.
Dublin, Morocco, Moscow, London, Istanbul—tracking targets, learning from the best in their fields.
The best Locksmith/safecracker, escape artist, stage magician, toxicologist and more. Erik and Li pushed their training harder than ever, striving to become the best at everything.
Now, he was back home, in America. More Specifically in Iowa.
"Clint Barton" He said calmly, taking another bite, unfazed.
"What is it this time? What's he the best at?" Li asked, curious.
"Marksmanship. He's the best marksman, especially with a bow." Erik replied.
Li raised an eyebrow. "A bow? Why use a bow when you can just use an M4 carbine?"
Erik shrugged, fork poised mid-air. "To be prepared. In case you don't have an M4.. Dumbass"
They ate, the quiet clatter of silverware punctuating their conversation as they continued to discuss their next moves.
- Later that Day - In a Forest -
In the middle of the forest, Clint Barton stood perfectly still, his bow loose in one hand, his breath slow and measured.
The woods stretched around him in all directions—tall oaks and maples stood like silent sentinels, their leaves whispering with the breeze.
The underbrush was thick in places, sparse in others, a mix of fallen branches, damp earth, and the quiet crunch of distant movement. The scent of moss and old bark hung in the air.
The feeling was familiar, even comforting
Being a bow hunter was less about chasing and more about waiting.
Stillness wasn't just a technique, it was a mindset.
A hunter had to become part of the forest. Present but invisible.
Every muscle in Clint's body was relaxed, yet poised like a drawn string.
He listened to the rhythm of the forest: the distant rustle of a deer, the caw of a crow, the sharp snap of a twig that didn't belong.
Patience was everything. The prey didn't come to noise or movement—it came to silence.
And Clint Barton had learned long ago how to be silence itself.
Suddenly, a deer stepped into the clearing, exactly where Clint had been expecting it. Its steps were soft, cautious, its head lifting every few seconds to sniff the air, ears twitching.
Clint didn't move. Not even a breath disturbed his form. His hand shifted slowly, drawing the bowstring back with practiced precision. His muscles didn't tremble. The string creaked softly under the tension, and then—
FTT.
The string snapped forward with a sharp, clean note, and the arrow cut through the air like a whisper of death.
It hit the deer just behind the front shoulder with a soft THMP!, slicing through lungs and heart in a single shot.
The animal bolted in instinctive panic, crashing forward a few meters before collapsing to the ground.
Its legs twitched once. Blood pooled into the grass, steam rising faintly in the cool forest air. A fast, clean death.
Clint nodded once—no pride, no remorse. Just efficiency. He reached over his shoulder for another arrow, holding it loosely as he began walking toward the body. But before he could kneel—
FTT!
Another arrow was shot, this one into the trees.
SHUNK!
"—Huh?!"
Li froze, his eyes wide. The arrow had pinned the edge of his hood clean into the trunk of a thick tree, anchoring him in place like a butterfly under glass.
Clint's face stayed calm, unreadable. Before anyone could react, another arrow was nocked, drawn and loosed—
FTT!
TAK. Erik's hand snapped out, catching it mid-flight without even flinching. His face was still, unreadable.
"Impressive" Clint Barton said quietly.
He didn't smile. Instead, he turned his bow sideways, drawing it taut again—this time with three arrows held between his fingers, all aimed in slightly different sections of Erik's body.
"It's a shame you don't have… three hands." The hunter continued dryly.
Erik lifted both arms slowly into the air, palms open. His body relaxed. His posture non-threatening.
"I'm not here to fight" He said flatly. "We came to learn."
Clint narrowed his eyes slightly—but didn't lower the bow.
Not yet.
"Who the hell are you?" Asked Clint, still alert, his string halfway drawn.
"I'm Erik. And he's Li." Erik replied, calm and collected, lowering his hands to show he meant no harm. Li casually stepped beside him, brushing some bark off his shoulder like he wasn't almost impaled.
"We came to be trained." Erik continued, voice steady "By the world's greatest marksman. Clint Barton."
Clint gave them a long look — the kind of look you give someone when you're trying to figure out if they're crazy or just plain stupid. "No one calls me that" He muttered. "Train? Lookit — you've wasted your time. I don't take students." He slotted his arrows back into the quiver and turned, walking away into the trees.
Erik watched him go, expression unreadable.
"You've won every national archery tournament you ever entered. Never missed a target."
Clint paused mid-step.
"But you never once tried for the Olympics or anything that might bring you real fame." Erik added, stepping forward. "That tells me you weren't after glory. Probably, money ?"
Clint turned slightly, his back still half-turned.
"You don't seem to have a job. We saw your act at that raggedy circus four days ago. Pretty sure they don't pay much. But a man like you… If you wanted steady work, you'd have it. So if you're not doing it for money and not for fun—then something else is keeping you busy."
Clint slowly faced them again, his frown deepening.
"We've read the newspappers." Erik said, voice lower now, almost cold. "About a ghost with a bow, showing up at night. Cleaning up the streets like some kind of superhero."
"I'm not a superhero." Clint said flatly indirectly admitting is implication uncaring.
"Neither are we." Erik answered. "We want to be trained so we can stop criminals and murderers too. And to do that—"
"You need to be better than them." Clint cut in, his voice heavy with experience. He looked down at the forest floor, silent for a moment.
Then Erik stepped forward and held out a thick roll of cash from his bag. "$10K. For the first week. That covers food, shelter, and your time."
Clint blinked, surprised by the amount. He glanced at the money, then at Erik — then sighed.
"Fine, I will help you." He muttered. Then turned around his expression unreadable. "Grab the deer. My place is due east of here… and it's not an easy trek."
Li looked at Clint's back, blinking while Erik lowered his gaze to the blood-soaked deer still lying in the grass.
"Well" Li said with a sigh "Guess we're carrying dinner."
- One Hour Later - Clint Barton House -
"I have to admit, I didn't think he'd be that easy..." Erik muttered, crouched beside Clint Barton as they worked on the deer.
"For what?" Clint asked without looking up, his hands steady as he sliced cleanly along the deer's skin.
"To convince you." Erik replied calmly, holding the skin taut so the archer could make the next cut.
Clint shrugged, his voice dry. "I need money."
"Hmnn.. Really, Just that?" Erik gave him a sideways glance, genuinely curious.
Clint didn't answer right away. He finished the final incision, peeling the last of the hide away in one clean motion. The full pelt flopped off, blood damp at the edges. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
"You guys want to help people too." He said finally, setting the skin aside.
Then, after a beat: "And the money doesn't hurt." He gave Erik a brief, knowing look before both of them shared a short chuckle.
Then Clint grabbed his hunting knife again.
He drove the blade carefully into the lower abdomen and opened the body cavity with practiced ease. A strong, metallic scent rose up — blood and bile mixed with the earthy musk of the forest.
The man reached in with precision, cutting entrails in a single motion, setting them aside in a shallow hole dug earlier.
As they worked in silence, Clint's thoughts wandered.
Why did I accept? Boredom? Loneliness? The money?
Or maybe it was something else.
Maybe it was because he saw something familiar in Erik's eyes — that same need to do something that matters.
He glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
Still… Best to keep an eye on them. They seem to know more than they let on.
He went back to work, hands steady.
Let's see what the future holds.