Kenneth Kitsom was as real as any other person, especially on paper. All of his records were in order. Birth, parent's death, adoption to his grandparents who lived on an isolated farm, their subsequent deaths. However, if anyone actually asked the people who knew his parents or grandparents, they would have no idea who "Kenny" was.
What made his existence more convincing was the fact that he was currently across the table from a man at a military hospital.
Kenny was nervous. He had only been awake for a few days. Hadn't seen anyone from his unit around. He actually hadn't seen anyone besides a nurse and a doctor. No one had said why this suit had wanted to see him. Barely a word as they wheeled him into the room. A camera was set up. A folder lay out in front of the man.
Kenny swallowed. Did they know?
It didn't feel like a lie anymore. He had been Kenny for over five years, this was who he was now. So Clint hoped to hell someone hadn't figured it out.
Becoming Kenny was easy. Too damn easy. It shouldn't be so easy to become someone else.
When the Swordsman and Trickshot took Clint and his brother under their wing, for real, not the training for the show where they learned to hit the mark every time, but the secret meetings where the mark became a person, one of their first lessons was to always have a backup plan.
So, when Clint had finally had enough… No. When Clint finally thought he was brave (meaning stupid) enough to try and get out, Kenny's life was waiting for the bloody and broken Clint to take it over.
What Clint had not counted on, though, was the brain damage.
They had left him for dead. Barney had left him for dead. And he should have died. Broken arm, collarbone and ankle; fractured rib and skull and a punctured lung. It was the last two that nearly did him in. After a particularly hard blow, Clint had fallen and cracked his head against a rock, knocking him out, and rolled face down into a puddle of water. At least that is what he figured happened. He couldn't remember the last half of his intended murder but that was where his good samaritan found him who knows how long later. The man, a local townie, refused to let him die and performed CPR until the ambulance arrived. Somehow, Clint ended up being alright, mostly. Problem was, his brain was without oxygen for too long. Add the blow to the head, and his cylinders were not moving at normal speed.
He was too young to live on his own, not that they would have let him anyway and was just mentally handicapped enough that he couldn't live in regular foster care. He seriously didn't think it was as bad as they made it out to be, he was slow, yeah, it took a bit longer now for his brain to work, but he also hadn't been to school since he was ten; and that made it look worse. Unfortunately, with the history Clint had created for Kenny, he looked like a severely sheltered, most likely abused, according to his scars, never evaluated, handicapped, seventeen year old runaway.
So, yeah, they put him in a center where he could get the care he needed. And now Kenny didn't have the mental power to escape. It took a few years to upgrade to a room/apartment where he could come and go as he pleased, within reason, but by that time where would he go?
The Army was a lucky break. Kenny may have been slow but he wasn't an idiot. He knew he shouldn't have made it through but there was no way he was going to rat the recruiter out; he was finally free of Berwin.
Then the roadside bomb had happened during his second year.
"Comfortable?"
Kenny nodded, releasing some nervous energy.
"You don't look comfortable."
He wasn't comfortable, but no one ever wanted to hear that. Kenny paused, slightly confused, then shook his head. His stomach clenched. Something was wrong. The man was staring at him, patiently waiting. For Kenny to give up? Confess? Were they discharging him? But he had been doing good, helping. He couldn't go back to Berwin now.
"Can I stay?"
The man across from him looked interested. "Do you want to stay?"
Kenny thought about the army, about how he was helping; doing more than he would ever be able to as Kenny Kitsom if he was shoved back in Berwin or any other place like it, and nodded.
Clint leaned back in his chair, the handcuffs pulling the chain through the ring welded to the table. His thigh itched where the bandage covered his bullet wound but he didn't move; didn't give anything away to the agent sitting across from him who was doing his best to look intimidating.
"Comfortable?"
That was obviously some kind of joke, cause even if he was that kind of kinky, these cuffs wouldn't even do it for him. So, no.
"You don't look comfortable."
Clint was on high alert now. Not again. Never again. He hadn't escaped Outcome simply to be forced into servitude with another shady government agency.
Clint leaned forward. "I'm better off than you're going to be if you keep this up."
"I don't-"
"The routine," Clint said, mockingly, as he sat back in his chair again. "The pathetically standard recruitment routine. Listen, I'll save you some time. No."
"You might want to listen-"
"No. You're going to make me an offer I can't refuse, or at least you see it that way; because the thought of going to prison, to someone like you you makes you physically ill, while to someone like me, I see it as a challenge."
At the agent's dumbfounded look he continued, slowly, "In case I was unclear, I would rather go to prison than work for you."
The little snot was at a complete loss for words. Had he really thought it was going to be that easy?
Clint was tired of people looking down on him like a simple-minded gun. Not even a person.
The door opened and another suit entered and Clint could feel the authority coming off of him. Which clearly contradicted his unassuming appearance. The snot quickly got out his chair. Oh yeah, someone screwed up.
The new suit motioned for the younger agent to leave, tacking on a, "You don't want to go too far", before the door was hastily closed.
With a quiet deep breathe, the suit took a seat, setting a case on the floor, and turned his full attention to Clint.
"I believe that you may have gotten the wrong impression from an overzealous junior agent."
"Is that so?
"Yes. It is not our intention to threaten you in any way."
"Of course not," Clint mocked, "Any threats that I might perceive would be simply that, my perception of the situation. Everything that is going to happen is completely my choice. Because that is what you are going to give me, choices. You are kind enough to let me choose my sentence. Join your righteous organization, redeem the wrongs of my life, or go to prison. My choice. Seems simple enough. With you I have more freedoms. I bet you have a nice mess hall where there is no fear of being shivved for sitting with the wrong people. Hey, I might even get my own shower. That would be a weight off my mind, obviously. Alright, so now I'm yours. To thank you for saving me from prison I'm going to ignore my conscious for a while and just do what you tell me, kill who you want me too. But eventually it catches up to me and I can't do it anymore, so I say 'no'. But wait, 'After everything we've done for you, you think you can tell us no now? How about you do as you're told or we send you to prison but now we tack on all the people you've killed for us to you record. You'll be a shoo in for death row.'"
Clint gave the agent an unimpressed look, "So given my choices, I think I'll skip the lies and drama and just choose prison the first time. Like I told your underling, I'm up for the challenge."
The agent was silent for a moment, studying Clint, his face thoughtful. Finally he spoke, "When we're done here, I'm going to be very interested in hearing about where you were for those ten years no one can find you."
His whole body wanted to sag. They don't know about Kenny or Aaron then. Clint tried to school his features but he knew it was too late; knew that the agent had seen the relief.
He had to give the agent credit, he was good.
"My name is Agent Coulson, I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"SHIELD, yeah, I've heard of you."
Agent Coulson didn't look surprised, even though they both knew SHIELD's existence was top secret and the fact that a hitman like Clint knowing about it would most likely mean a month of someone's weekends were blown trying to figure it out; if Clint didn't tell them.
"As I was saying, I have no intention of threatening you, overtly or otherwise. I am however, here to offer you a job." Coulson leaned to the side and after a couple snaps, set a stack of papers on the table. "This is a standard SHIELD contract, given to any new recruit out of college, the army, or wherever we happen to find them. Noting your earlier concerns, we do have very safe mess halls in each of our bases, and after your initial orientation, training and probationary period you will be free and clear to find any residence off base, following a threat assessment of the area.
"There would be a few clauses added to yours, of course, one being absolution of past crimes."
Clint hid his surprise. Reminding himself that it was just a ploy, that the agent didn't actually mean it.
Coulson leaned over again, this time a stack of folders was placed on the table. One by one he opened them, read the name inside, and put them in two different piles.
As the first name was read Clint began to tense. Coulson was naming off the people he had killed. Was this some kind of sick guilt trip? It was going to backfire, because Clint felt no guilt for those people.
Coulson said the last name and set the file on it's pile. "This isn't all of them, obviously, but I only brought these to make a point.
Clint didn't answer, merely lifted an eyebrow for the agent to continue.
Coulson set his hand one of the piles. "These are the people that were on SHIELD's watch or hit lists at the time of their death.
Clint blinked and looked at the pile. It had twice as many files in it as the other.
The agent continued, "These," indicating the other pile, "were researched and deemed low level threats, at least to the world at large, but no one that anyone would be crying over."
"But I think it is this pile," Coulson said, motioning to an empty space on the table, "that I find the most enlightening. This pile contains the decent, innocent people that you have killed for money."
Clint stared at the empty space, then at the other piles. His lunges were tight. He chanced a look to Coulson and found the man's patient gaze on him.
Damn it, he looked away.
Who was this guy who was somehow seeing through everything he had built around himself?
"You spoke of choices before," Coulson went on, "and you are right, no one can force you to do anything, your choices are your own, and they are a reflection of who you are. Whatever influences you have had in you past, you have chosen this life over any other. You're not pouring coffee for someone in Boston or one of any other countless jobs. You have been dealt some difficult hands in your life, more than we know about, no doubt, but despite that, I believe you, Clint Barton, are a good man who has chosen a difficult path, with the hope of making this world a better place."
"We are looking to recruit a man who will do his best, not because of the leash around his neck, or because it is in his best interest and will help him in the long run, no, but because he has a deep desire and need to help others who cannot do it themselves."
He wanted it, heaven help him, he wanted that more than anything. But he wasn't... he had done so much they didn't know about. He was a monster.
"And somehow you believe that that's me?" He sounded small.
"Yes."
Clint's eye's met the agent's again and held them. "Why?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
Coulson's eyes soften but his voice was firm and confident. "Because Mr. Barton, I believe in heroes. And I also believe that I may be sitting across from one right now."