The year was 2008—right around the time Tony Stark was still strutting around as the world's newest superhero celebrity, pre-Jericho demo chaos. SHIELD was busy, the Red Room was still a nightmare factory, and somewhere in Budapest, a mission that would become legend was unfolding. Or, in Alex Dumbfort's case, imploding spectacularly.
Alex had "borrowed" a Stark Industries prototype jet-ski (don't ask how; it involved a misplaced keycard and a very convincing "I'm with the band" story to a confused Hungarian dock worker). He was supposed to be testing it on the Danube for "aquatic snack delivery feasibility." Translation: Tony told him to go sightseeing and not blow anything up. Alex, true to form, had no map, no clue, and a backpack stuffed with energy drinks, chips, and the world's most unreliable snack drone.
He zoomed upriver, wind in his hair, yelling "This is awesome!" until the jet-ski sputtered and dumped him right onto the bank near an old apartment building. Dripping wet, he wandered into what he thought was a public park. It was actually the perimeter of Natasha Romanoff's safehouse—where she was mid-operation, luring General Dreykov into a rigged five-story building with explosives.
Meanwhile, Clint Barton (Hawkeye), perched on a rooftop across the street, had his bow drawn, arrow nocked, watching through his scope. SHIELD's orders: eliminate the Black Widow if she proved untrustworthy. But Clint had already made his "different call"—he was partnering with her to take down Dreykov.
Then Alex happened.
Alex, still sopping, spotted a "fancy vending machine" (actually a disguised surveillance post). "Score! Free snacks?" He kicked it—because why not?—and the thing sparked, short-circuiting a nearby power line. The surge rippled through the building's wiring, prematurely triggering one of Natasha's charges. BOOM. A section of the facade exploded outward in a shower of bricks and dust.
Clint's shot went wide—arrow embedding in a lamppost instead of its target. "What the—?" he muttered.
Natasha, inside, cursed in Russian. Dreykov's goons panicked, guns blazing. Chaos erupted: Hungarian Special Forces sirens wailed in the distance, alerted by the unscheduled boom.
Alex, coughing in the dust cloud, popped up like a confused prairie dog. "Whoa, fireworks? Cool!" He offered a soggy chip to a stunned Dreykov henchman who had tumbled out a window. The henchman, dazed, took it—then sneezed violently from the barbecue flavoring. In his flailing, he knocked over a stack of crates, revealing hidden Red Room tech that Clint had been trying to photograph.
Clint rappelled down, landing beside Natasha. "We have company."
Natasha, Batons crackling: "Civilian. In flip-flops. With chips."
Alex waved. "Hey! You guys doing a movie? Need extras? I can do stunts!" He tripped over rubble, accidentally shoulder-checking a goon into a fountain. The goon splashed down, shorting his own taser. ZAP.
Clint fired an explosive arrow to cover their escape—straight into the building's support column. Another BOOM. The structure groaned, tilting like a drunk leaning on a lamppost. Dreykov, thinking fast, fled with his daughter Antonia—unbeknownst to anyone, surviving the blast in a hidden panic room.
Hungarian Special Forces arrived in force. Natasha and Clint bolted, dragging a bewildered Alex along because he was somehow still alive and holding snacks. "This way!" Clint yelled, leading them into the subway tunnels.
They crammed into an air duct—Natasha graceful, Clint tactical, Alex... wedged like a cork in a bottle. "Guys, this is cozy! Want some chips? They're a little crushed."
For four days they hid: Clint sniping from vents, Natasha hacking security cams, Alex accidentally jamming signals by dropping his phone (which somehow broadcast a looped "Sorry, wrong number" voicemail in broken Hungarian, confusing the pursuers).
One night, Alex tried to "help" by pressing a random button on Clint's trick arrow quiver. An arrow launched—net arrow—wrapping up three pursuing agents in a giant web. "See? Teamwork!"
Clint stared. "Kid, you just saved our skins... by being an idiot."
Natasha, almost smiling: "He remembers Budapest differently."
After ten days of duct-crawling, near-misses, and Alex's endless snack commentary ("These pierogies are better than pizza!"), they escaped the city. Dreykov was presumed dead (big oops), the Red Room disrupted (temporarily), and Natasha's defection sealed.
Back in New York weeks later, Clint filed a report: "Mission success. Minor civilian interference. Recommend monitoring—subject causes chaos but zero casualties."
Natasha added one line: "Dumbfort. Walking disaster. Keep him away from Budapest."
Years later, when Natasha quipped "Just like Budapest all over again" during the Battle of New York, Clint shot back: "You and I remember Budapest very differently."
He was thinking of the precise op, the sacrifice, the bond forged in fire.
She was thinking of the guy in flip-flops who turned a surgical strike into a food-fight demolition derby... and somehow made it work.