"Yes, sir"
Hawkeye was raised to be polite. Whenever her father asked her opinion, gave an order, opened his mouth to speak she replied—obedient and absolute. He issued a last directive before turning his head aside and passing in all his prejudiced and malcontented glory to the other world. Hawkeye joined the military, shouldered a gun, trotted politely away to sand and blood.
"Yes, sir"
He was not much older than her. There was something in those jaded eyes that stirred that most secret desire left in her bullet ridden heart—ambition ran in their blood and steamed through their pores. They trailed the scent of purpose and dedication to a vain cause, attracting other feckless souls to share their destiny. And when he asked her to sacrifice future promise of fame and power to bolster his ladder to the very top of their world that he was fashioning from the blood and sweat of the less fortunate, she assented without hesitation. Hawkeye packed her meager belongings, cleaned her side arms, journeyed to Central where a claustrophobic office and a lackadaisical staff waited.
"Yes, sir"
She cupped her hands beneath his foot and gave him flight over the wall. He snapped his fingers and the flame consumed the Pride/Sin that gripped their country in fist of iron.
Stripped of the blue cloaking that concealed countless evils from humanity—sayonara aide-de-camp, sayonara chuuin—Hawkeye simply was. In the dimming light of a snow swept day, he tentatively asked her of her regret flying too close to the sun.
"No, sir." Icarus enjoyed the view all the way down to hell.