Avengers The Vault

**Summary:** After Obadiah's betrayal, Stark never expected to find himself incarcerated in one of Hydra's most secure prison facilities. He and the other inmates soon learn that their incarceration is no coincidence- they're all pawns in Hydra's plan for world domination.

**Author's notes;**

**Fanficfixation:** This fic was inspired by a number of TV dramas and movies such as The Winter Solider and Escape Plan. My brother has very kindly assisted me in writing this, so be sure to let us know what you think.

**Morbid_Misanthropist:** This fic has been lying around for months, and I recently just re-discovered it sitting around on my laptop. Figured it's about time we started uploading. Thanks for taking the time to stop by- greatly appreciated!

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><p>He shuffled slowly through the packed corridor, accustomed to the impatient pushing and cursing being emitted from the men that were walking behind him. As always his expression remained as unchanged as ever, a piercing scowl displayed as a silent warning to the others, a warning that he wouldn't let anyone push him around like a little girl in the school yard.<p>

The corridor disappeared entirely as he turned the first corner, replaced with a narrow walkway that was constructed by a chain link fence; once a day they were forced to parade through the hall and endure the same routine, herded like animals to the slaughterhouse while they were watched- _mocked_. The scene, as dismal as it was, was unfortunately the reality of hundreds of men, and Clint Barton was no exception.

Wide enough only to allow a single individual to pass, a long queue began to form as the men began to assume the usual formation, walking one behind the other in a rowdy fashion, treading on the back of each other's cheap issued boots, some cursing and others shouting impatiently in frustration. After what seemed like an eternity of suppressing his discontent, Clint could finally see the turnstile gate, grinding and squeaking noisily in a clockwise fashion as the inmates began to emerge one by one into the open space, each loud grind of the gate aggravating the pounding in his head.

At last it was his turn to pass through the turnstile, and Barton proceeded to push the gate in his usual languid fashion, emerging on the other side to greet the masked guard with a judgemental glare. Before the guard could command him, he promptly raised his left wrist in an automatic motion, accustomed to the tedious protocol that he was sure he could follow even in his sleep.

Each inmate was issued with an ID, a tight metal cuff that was secured to the left wrist, containing a chip that was scanned as a method of identification. As well as storing information, each chip was also used as a register during the daily movements of inmates when they were outside their cells, scanned when they entered and left each area of the building to ensure that every man was accounted for. Tight enough to prevent them from being removed (but mercifully not enough to cease blood circulation), these pieces of high tech were nothing more than elaborate tracking devices; little did the inmates know, the bland looking cuffs also concealed a clever microphone, which could be accessed at any time by someone that had the authority to access to the sophisticated computer system.

After a scan of the wrist and a quick but thorough pat down, Barton was free to disappear into the crowd and return to his usual spot, crouched on the bench at the back of the hall where the Hawke would resume his tedious watch.

Every day his repetitive schedule remained the same; at precisely twelve forty five the inmates were released from their cells and herded to the mess hall, where Barton would spend his time doing what he did best- observing.

Each day was the same yet he would continue to watch, quietly perched in his nest and forever waiting to spot something that he might have missed, waiting to observe something new in the dismal four walls where there was no room for change, only strict routine and nonnegotiable obedience.

Nothing escaped the Hawks gaze.

Glancing idly back to the chain link fence across the hall, where the line continued to inch forward, Clint spotted a clean shaven brunette pass through the turnstile gate in a crisp looking grey uniform, the spotless fabric clearly unworn like those donned by the other inmates, not a crease or a hole in sight.

The way he walked as if he were lost, glancing at everything with a pair of naive brown eyes- he was fresh faced, tanned, and everything about him seemed new. Unlike most of the other men he didn't raise his left arm until he was commanded, appearing to be unprepared for the pat down that was to follow.

Unfortunately for the newcomer, Clint's observation didn't remain entirely unnoticed by the others.

All eyes were upon him, and as the man stepped into the crowded hall he was soon surrounded by a swarm of menacing faces, their curious eyes scrutinising him from head to toe like vultures eyeing a corpse, searching for weakness and trying to assert their dominance.

Barton had to admit that even he was surprised by the way that the guy was trying to stand his ground. Despite being the latest edition to the group and unfamiliar with the territory, the brunette held his head high and eyed the crowd with a stubborn hazel eyed gaze, glancing inquisitively at his surroundings in an attempt to analyse the situation, trying to figure out where he stood.

Unfortunately for the newbie, until he proved himself worthy of some respect, his place among the inmates was at what Clint liked to call 'the bottom of the food chain', a place where he'd been before... It took a strong man to survive the bumpy ride, and would be interested to see what this guy was made of.

He looked different from the rest, lacking the brutish attitude and intimidating bulk of muscle.

The hawk continued to watch with a pair of sharp eyes, wondering what had brought him here. Unlike some of the other brutes he didn't look like much of a physical threat, nor did he possess any gang related tattoos on his tanned skin. Perhaps there was nothing special about him, or perhaps he had some kind of power or financial influence. Whatever it was, despite being intimidated by the large crowd and obviously deeply out of his comfort zone, he possessed an unusual air of confidence for someone that was probably about to get their ass handed to them.

Suddenly, he was approached by a towering figure that emerged from the crowd, tall, muscular, tattooed, and a brutish face, a man who was obviously not interested in niceties or pleasant conversation.

"What do we have here?" The ruffian asked, towering over the smaller figure in a dominating fashion, a grimacing smile across his lips. "What's your name, _boy scout_?"

"None of your business," the brunette replied boldly, appearing to examine his fingernails casually, trying hard to seem unfazed by the confrontation.

"What did you fucking say to me?"

"I said, it's none of your god damn business."

"Fucker. You want to play tough guy hm? Well, we'll see who's fucking business it is when I'm finished beating some manners into you. You'll be drinking through a straw for your first week like a fucking cripple."

"You're a real feisty one aren't you?" The brunette replied testily, managing to hold his composure as an enormous fist seized him by the collar of his grey shirt.

"You little shit-"

"Language! Tell me, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Suddenly, a large calloused hand seized him roughly by the shoulder, causing him to startle and jerk a hard elbow into the young man who happened to be standing behind him, effectively winding the guy by hitting him hard in the stomach, entirely unintentionally of course.

There was a pause of silence throughout the room, and the brunette knew that boy was he in trouble. He could practically see the daggers in the guy's eyes, and if he were in a cartoon there would almost certainly be steam pouring out of his ears and nostrils like some kind of livid bull.  
>Taking a deep breath and attempting to ignore the wreathing sense of unease that began to knot in the pit of his stomach, he braced himself for what was probably going to be an unpleasant experience.<p>

He just hoped that he managed to keep hold of all of his impeccable teeth, otherwise his dentist was going to be pissed.

"Uh oh," he declared in a low voice that was almost a defeated whisper, pretty certain that his big mouth wouldn't be enough to get him out of this one.

"Say your prayers," the ruffian declared with a menacing smile, delivering a swift punch that managed to clip the smaller man in the jaw, despite his best attempts to dodge the enormous fist.

The blow wasn't enough to knock him off of his feet but it still _really _hurt and was likely to leave an interesting bruise in the morning.

He waited for a few seconds to pass and allowed the guy to close in once more, waiting for the opportune moment to strike when he was just within reach...

He delivered a hard kick to the brutes shin, causing the guy to stumble and catching him surprisingly off guard, exclaiming hastily, "Tag, you're it!"

Suddenly another fist collided hard with his skull, knocking him to the cold ground in a graceful heap, rendering him confused and disorientated as for a few seconds everything remained a bit of a blur. Unfortunately for him, those few short seconds of weakness were enough to give his opponent a chance to strike again; the ruffian was now aided by his younger companion, both proceeding to kick him hard in the ribs with their boots, until a stern voice intervened with a simple command.

"Knock it off Clive."

"Why would I want to do that, _Tweety Pie_?"

"Two guys against one? Barton questioned, holding his head high and eyeing Clive with a challenging gaze. "That doesn't seem like you."

"He disrespected me, and now I'm teaching Boy Scout here some manners. Got a problem? Or do I need to have a word with you too?" Clive replied, gesturing to his clenched fist.

"If you're going to fight, don't play dirty like a coward."

"Big words from a little boy like you," Clive sneered with a toothy smile. "Do you remember the first day you crossed me Tweety Pie? I gave you two black eyes, a broken nose, and you tried to hit like a little girl."

"If I remember correctly, this little girl put you in medical for three weeks not long after that incident. Don't you remember? Maybe I hit you harder than I thought," Barton replied, a faint yet detectable smile gracing his lips. There was a brief pause before he uttered finally, "Get lost Clive."

"Your days are numbered little bird," he replied, disappearing into the crowd with a stony expression, undoubtedly trying to nurse his damaged pride.

There was a slow clapping sound which graced Clint's ears; following the noise with his hawk like eyes, he was greeted with the sight of the brunette still lying sprawled across the hard floor, appearing to be applauding Barton's performance with a slight smile, before exclaiming "Bravo."

The hawk offered him a hand, helping him to his feet with a firm grasp. "You owe me a favour," he declared cheekily.

"I didn't need your help," the man responded with a cocky smile. "I totally almost had him."

"Oh really?" Barton inquired, elevating a brow curiously. "And what do you call that technique that you used just then?"

"Oh, just a little something I call 'I Surrender'. It's pretty rare- you might not have heard of it." He extended a hand for a handshake, which Clint accepted, uttering a sincere "thanks-"

"Barton. Clint Barton."

"Nice to meet you Clint. You come here often?" He asked, rubbing his aching jaw with a hand and suppressing the urge to release a pained hiss.

"You got a name, or should I just call you Boy Scout?"

The brunette hesitated for a moment before finally responding, almost reluctant to continue.

"Tony," he replied, "just... Tony."


End file.

Avengers, Drama