souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Clara has decided that at some point she lost any and all ability to control the weird factor in her life. She has also decided that if the kids ever decide to blackmail her again, she'll handle it herself. Handling it herself this time would have meant she wouldn't be leading two sort-of-like-INTERPOL-but-not James Bond types through the door of a pub that shouldn't even exist into a comical castle full of easily-cowed soldiers who were setting up defenses against rather scary child-napping alien robots.

Yet somehow, this is her life right now. At least it isn't chilly out.

"Ma'am!" Annnnd they've been spotted. It's showtime, boys and girls.

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Clint follows her out immediately with his sniper rifle case in hand, Natasha just slightly behind. That's how they stand -- Clint next to Clara, and politely quiet, Natasha a half-step behind and far enough apart that it could be considered deferential if it weren't for the fact that her feet are firmly planted and she's watching the room.

As it is, defensive flank might be more appropriate.

The person approaching, Clint assumes, is the captain and previous commanding officer. She's in her thirties, and has understands her role well enough that the carefully controlled fear in her face could be mistaken for anger. His posture was already very straight -- somehow, he straightens.

The scattered soldiers are still working, but very obviously watching the newcomers with naked curiosity and fear. They're all very clearly green, unused to combat or danger, unused to living a super regimented life despite their current occupation. Their captain, clearly having superior military training, makes Clara's attempt at a military stance look ridiculous.

"Ah, yes, Captain. This is Sergeant Barton and Specialist Romanoff, the proconsul has asked them to help me... manage. This. And to find ways to not blow up the planet." Clara ad-libs in her sternest nanny voice before the Captain can demand what sort of tomfoolery is going on now.

Clara is pretty sure she'll be perfectly within her rights to murder the Doctor slowly once he gets back.

Edited 2015-01-22 18:01 (UTC)

Clint has absolutely no expression regarding blowing up the planet.

Natasha's eyes flick over to watch them, but her shoulders have settled on being introduced and getting a look at the soldiers. Professional, but stance and face softening. Not scaring the ducklings matters even more here than with recent SHIELD academy graduates.

"Captain," he says, tone polite. "I run small teams operations. Not," he says, with an almost smile, "against Cybermen. I need your sitrep." He tilts his right hand for Natasha to join them, moving forward.

Clara can follow; he expects her to. But she can do whatever she wants.

The Captain's expression while still professional, is infinitely relieved. Despite what she may think, Clara doesn't fake 'officer' terribly well to someone who's actually spent time around proper officers, and is utter pants at being reassuring.

This is probably down to the way that she's still scanning the horizon every few minutes for any sign of the children. Or of the Doctor. Or preferably of all three, why haven't they come back yet?

"It's not something we ever thought we would have to face, out here." The Captain wryly admits, the tilt of her lips hinting at a dry sense of humor she might have enjoyed once upon a time, before bad judgement calls landed her in this situation. "If you don't mind, we have our available weapons stored in the... I suppose one might call it an antechamber to the great hall, its the room with the fewest doors." And the least amount of comical elements.

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