Hello everyone. After the hurricane Irma passed through my city, I was not able to update my other story, and came up with a different idea (Dont worry though, I will finish it). I have decided to pause my writing of Natalia Romanov, and focus on this one first, which will be taking place in the same universe, at a much earlier time. I also plan in expanding the universe far beyond these two stories. I hope not to dissappoint anyone with the idea, and that you all enjoy the project that I am working on. The plan is to get one chapter published every week ( most probably each Sunday). Thank you for reading.
Cold. That was all he felt as the back end of the arrow brushed against his cheek; all he felt as it dug through the heart of its target and the blood surged to the surface while the victim choked. That was all he felt when Catherine Lambert ran to her father's side and her broken cry echoed through the slums of Brooklyn, while a million faces glanced and walked away. That only showed how much those arrows were feared, or how heartless the people, or the world, to let an innocent girl of seven orphaned.
The numbness persisted as he himself walked through the streets, away from the yet another victim. It left him empty, devoid of any feelings or emotions, devoid of any right to feel. The basic rights of humanity did not apply to one such as him, a murderer, a man who kills for money, who leaves children orphaned and wives widowed, who hunts men as mere animals in the wild and leaves them to bleed on the cold asphalt as hunters do a useless catch.
Throughout the gang infested, underground world of New York City the name Hawkeye was renown. In every criminal-ruled corner of the country, of the Earth, there was not one who could hear the name Hawkeye, or see an arrow fly through the air, and not tremble in fear and respect. None, however, knew of Clint Barton; the man who went to bed every night and could not sleep; the man whose hands were dripping red, and whose conscious tortured every second of every day; the man who hopelessly searched for a way out, knowing that he was trapped, that a chain of bad decisions combined with ill fortune had led him were he was, and that the only way out was with a bullet; the man who felt guilty for breathing, angry for his guilt, and a coward for his anger.
At the SHIELD headquarters in New York, Director Fury had already given the order: Hawkeye was to be eliminated, neutralized, like so many victims. No information was known of the marksman, other than his signature weapon, estimated number of kills, and approximate current location. Phil Coulson led the mission, a team of SHIELD's best agents ready to kill on sight.
When they arrived at the margin of the location, the agents were separated and sent to search. At an instant, arrows flew through the wind and landed on the chests of agents, coming from different directions, as if their owner could teleport from building to building in a matter of seconds, without being seen. Three agents wounded, none dead. Agent Coulson was the first to spot the aggressor; a glimpse at a legend. The man had dirty blond hair and a good built. He was crouching in front of Coulson and slowly stood up and pierced him with his eyes; eyes so blue and young, yet at the same time so heavy with suffering. Phil Coulson could not bring himself to shoot. The man in front of him looked to be 19 or 20 at most, a boy, not what he had expected from the renown killer, and the look on his face spoke of hidden sentiment, emotions suppressed with the years, not of the hatred and vengeance that often marked a killer's eyes.
Barton, Hawkeye, did not see the man there before he landed. He was hidden behind the shadows of the surrounding buildings, and so when he found himself crouching before one of his prosecutors, it was too late to reconsider. He stared at him and quickly brought out his arrow and set it on the bow, ready for the kill. The way the man looked at him, however, detained him a moment longer. His eyes held pity and confusion, not the fear that he was so well accustomed to. His rival held a gun in his hand yet had it pointed at the ground, he showed no signs of wanting to kill him, yet that was impossible, he deserved to die. He found himself lowering the arrow and walking away, jumping to the next building and continuing his fight, as if uninterrupted, but his mind clouded with the memory of what occurred.
Six months passed, and Phil Coulson had his mind still set on the assassin that had spared his life; the young man that he thought he could save. It took a long while while to persuade Fury to consider the man a potential , valuable asset, and even longer to locate said man, but Coulson had finally achieved it. He was headed towards Chicago, Illinois, where the Hawkeye had been spotted a few hours ago. The flight took - hours, and, as soon, as it landed, agents were positioned around all the possible locations with instructions to contact Coulson if the target was spotted.
Please, if you are interested, comment and let me know. That makes me want to keep writing. Also, if there is anything that you would like to suggest or any advice, feel free to send it to me as well (though not all suggestions will be met). Thank you for getting this far.