So, perhaps you had a little help.
Maybe you wouldn’t have survived that assassination attempt if not for your powers. Maybe millions of people across the world wouldn’t have watched on live TV as you quickly recover from a shot to the head and finish your speech on environmentalism in little more than thirty seconds. Maybe the vulture-like media, hundreds of medical organizations around the globe, and several military programs looking to recruit you as a biological weapon wouldn’t have descended on you. Maybe SHIELD wouldn’t have approached you looking to recruit you into the Avengers. Maybe you wouldn’t have accepted in order to get everyone else out of your face.
And maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t be rushing across the street of a foreign city on a giant hunk of floating rock, attempting to protect Clint Barton and a little boy from a hail of bullets.
“Hawkeye!” you call out, waving your arms as you run as fast as your under-trained legs will take you. He doesn’t turn his head, so you figure his hearing aid is too over-stimulated currently to pick up your frantic screams. You realize that he’s going to die if you don’t move it, and that speeding, silver streak looks like he could help. But, shit what was his name. “Hey…you!”
Thank whatever powers that be, he pauses and looks at you. “Me?”
You all but throw yourself into his arms. “Take me to Hawkeye now.”
“The guy with the arrows! Now g- holy shit.”
Between the time the g was mere air in your throat, and your lips moved to form the shape to give the letter life, you arrived in front of Clint and the boy with mere seconds to spare. Were it not for your superior healing abilities, you’ve no doubt that the G-force of that speed would have knocked you unconscious, but the blood returns to your brain in mere milliseconds. The speedy individual slams into a car, shoving it in front of the pair to serve as a shield, just as the Quinjet’s guns spring to life.
Of course, being the self-sacrificing martyr that most superheroes turn out to be — despite the fact that he was technically a villain barely a day ago — he completely neglects his own safety. Even when he has a regenerator not three inches away, whose literal assignment is to be a human meat shield. As such, you step into the line of fire without hesitation, taking the brunt of the attack head-on.
Bullets pierce your flesh at lightning speed, one after another, and you wonder if by being shot in such quick succession will affect your healing factor. Will the process be slower? Will it even activate, or will you die before it can? You’ve never really pushed your limit before, so now is the perfect time to do so.
You just wish it weren’t so painful.
Before you know it, you hit the ground, knees having given out when the last bullet punctures your left femoral artery. Clint cries your name when he recovers from the shock and you feel two hands grasp your shoulders, easing your descent to the ground. A faint tingling sensation begins in the pit of your stomach wherein most of the bullets lodged themselves. Good. Now you know you can be shot to Swiss cheese and still heal. Staring up into the two worried faces above you, you begin rattling off the process as it progresses, and Clint radios the helicarrier, telling them to prep for your arrival.
“S-seven bullets…lining of the stomach…descending aorta…abdominal vena cava….” You cough up a great deal of blood. “Oh…internal bleeding….”
The speedy man looks absolutely horrified at your morbid monologue. It dawns on you that there wasn’t actually enough time for a rundown of all the heroes of the group. Since you’re not in a flashy suit of armor, or green, or flying around with aid of a hammer, he probably thought you to be unenhanced, like Clint and Natasha
Therefore — from his point of view — you, a very attractive, charismatic CEO of a well-to-do bioplastics company is dying in his arms, all in the name of saving the life of a man you barely know. It’s poetic, dramatic, damn-near romantic! …okay, so coughing up blood and talking about aortas isn’t particularly passionate, per se, but it makes for great daytime television.
Wait, what are you even thinking? It seems the blood loss is getting to you. The multiple wounds have slowed the healing process, meaning that your previous hypothesis is correct. Even your enhanced blood cell production can’t keep up with how swiftly it’s leaving your body. Darkness starts creeping into the edges of your vision and you continue with your previous soliloquy to ease yourself into unconsciousness.
“Three bullets…in the lungs…bronchioles…tertiary bronchi…secondary bronchi —”
A gasp tearing from your throat cuts off your running commentary. You struggle briefly in pain, but Clint keeps his hands planted firmly on your shoulders, preventing you from moving much. Vaguely, you hear him instruct speedy to bring the kid to the lifeboat, which the younger man does in less than half a second. Then he’s back, grabbing your legs as Hawkeye lifts your shoulders. Tingling in your lungs makes your breath come out in painful shudders.
“…primary…bronchi…epithelial tissue…visceral ple…ura…parietal pleura…ribs…stern…um….”