[ He starts the feed a little prematurely, as he turns the device around so it's face him rather than the opposite wall, and there's sounds of shuffling as he perches himself on the side of his bed, leaning forward all the better to be seen. ]

Well, we've been here a few weeks, now, and it got me thinking. We've all got something to bring to the table, right? Doesn't matter how small or insignificant it seems, everyone's got something that'll get some use made out of it somewhere.

So, I figure, why don't we all pool our knowledge. You know, pass on advice across these things? It'll kill time, and, hopefully, save lives. So, what, we've got hunters and trackers, right? People who know what to gather and where to look for it, stuff that could be edible or used as medicine. Everyone knows some form of first-aid, seems like everywhere we come from does it different, so why not cover all our bases? And then there's stuff that'll help with the boredom when it's quiet. Like I said, doesn't have to sound big or clever to be useful, everyone's got something to contribute.

How about we all get thinking, huh? Make a list. There might be stuff we've forgot or not used for a while, but that's there if we try to dig it up.

[ He leans back, so he's more comfortable, with his back against the wall and his head looking up at the ceiling, away from the camera, as he thinks himself. And then he huffs, an amused sound, as he looks back. ]

Figure we can swap stories, too, you know? Keep each other sane. Got a few that'd have people checking under their beds at night. [ As if considering that, he makes a face, and then shrugs. ] Guess not those ones. But between us, there's enough to get us through this a while longer.

[ He's got plenty that, if he edited out all the highly classified parts, could make for good stories, and then there's Stark, a week with him and there's enough there alone to last. And, besides, who're these people going to tell? Then again, it's highly plausible there's people watching them all, listening to their every word; if this is a test, that's one thing, but if it's a set-up, a way to get information out of people they can use or sell? He doesn't want to be the one that destroys the world, so he'll consider his every word carefully. ]

Well, give it some thought, yeah? If we all pitch in, do our bit, then there's a good chance of us all making it through this. And, uh, if anyone's feeling the isolation weighing in? Reach out to someone. That someone can be me, if there's no one else offering.

Guess that's it, really. Sure I'll let you guys know when there's something else I've been thinking too long on.

[ With a mock salute, Clint switches off the feed. ]

There had been word of what would happen if anyone of the captives were to remain in the same location for longer than the captors cared for. But, Clint being Clint, he had to test this, to experience it for himself, to see if there might be the chance of learning anything from it, some form of escape.

Still, he never expected it to hit this quickly, or as hard as it appeared to be.

He was restless, twitchy, constantly checking out of the windows and positioning his arms as if he were holding an invisible bow before he remembered he didn't have it with him. He lost count of how many times he attempted to reach for a gun that was no longer sitting in its holster.

The others, he felt as if he had to protect them, but he wasn't entirely sure from what, and he kept questioning them and their motives.

"What if they brought me here," he muttered, as he paced backwards and forwards around the living room. "Took me from my family and friends, left them vulnerable while they keep me busy." He froze, then, staring out of the window without even trying to conceal the action, because the one thought he couldn't bear occurred to him. "They might've put me here, out of the way, so they can kill my people."

He leapt into action, then, throwing open the front door, still trying to reach for guns and arrows that weren't there. He scanned the area, snow covering for miles each and every way, and no way around it except to go through it. This he knew, this he was used to, and he was adjusting to it better than some - better than even he expected. And as he marched on, driving forward, hunting for his prey, he barely even noticed the cold or the wet penetrating what clothes he had on. He had to find them, all the others, who were playing a part, pretending to be held here against their will with no recollection of what was happening; he had to find them, and he had to kill them, before they killed anyone he cared about.

It happened all at once, the paranoia reaching insane proportions, and then suddenly spilling over to the point where he stopped dead in his tracks, tracks which he hadn't even bothered to cover so no one could follow his trail - it was possible the snow would cover it back over, if he was lucky enough. But right there, laid out before him in the snow, blood red staining its pure surface, was Fury, his coat sprawled out in an unruly fashion, his eye patch knocked askew. He acted before he realised what he was doing, bending down in the depths of the cold whiteness to check for a pulse, find out where the blood was coming from. But it was no good; he was dead. He was too late, and if Fury was out, then his levels of hopefulness were quickly diminishing.

He pushed himself on, more frantically, now, eyes flitting this way and that, unable to contain themselves, and then he came across another body. No, two bodies. Their faces were blue with cold, lips purple, and their limbs in unnatural positions. The bright red hair, though, that was hard to misplace, and the suit, with its tie frozen solid, and the gentle yet dangerous expression forever held in time - Natasha and Phil. He had failed them, too, not been quick enough, clever enough, to work all this out sooner, to reach them in time, and without any of his former team in play, what chance did he have of making it out alive?

Still, there were others, more people that could be hurt, so he kept going, forcing his stiff, trembling legs to keep moving forward, one effort-filled step at a time through the masses of snow.

And then he stopped altogether, dropping helpless to his knees, because what he saw, now, it broke him. The Avengers, all of them, sprawled out across the open expanses of snow, surrounding him, and there, his wife and children, all dead, all hope lost with them.

He couldn't move, at least not until it happened. The limbs of the dead began to twitch, creak in their froze fashion, and all of them closing in on him. They were slow, but he couldn't move, had no real reason to; if they were going to take him with them, then he had no objections. Everything was lost. There was no one left to protect, no future to fight for without them to reap the benefits; he had no reason at all but to remain there and let them devour him.

"Guess sorry's not gonna cut this one, huh?" He sounded sad, devoid of any real emotion, as if he were numb to it all, really, like it's something he had been waiting to happen, but praying the day would never come. "Figured I could do it, you know? Be one of the good guys, putting myself out there, fighting at the top with the real heroes. Turns out I wasn't cut out for it, after all."

Each of the frozen and bloody corpses were closing in on him, and now they were beginning to speak, harsh and obstructed, but still intelligible.

Clint merely laughed, falling forward until his hands buried themselves into the snow to catch himself. But he trembled where he was.

"You're right, I know you are. No idea what I was thinking. What's a guy like me really got to offer, huh? When there's guys out there with their special abilities, and, me, what've I got? Got good aim, there's that. And I never miss. But what's there to miss if you don't see the target coming? Should've caught it sooner, realised before now what they were planning. Instead I failed you all, let the team down."

He closed his eyes and let them box him in, let them attack from all sides, and he could feel every chunk that was ripped out of him, screamed against his better judgement, but he let it happen. And when he thought it was all over, when he thought he could keep his eyes closed and finally rest, he found them thrown open, nothing but snow all around with no red decorating it, no familiar faces looking on at him accusingly. And he was running; he didn't know why, what caused him to keep charging forward, throwing snow up in his wake, or where he was even going, but he knew there was somewhere he had to be.

He supposed he would keep going until he found where that place was. After all, if ever there were answers to be had, the only real way to find them is if he went out and searched for them himself.