**February 12th 2006**

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly; lining up his shot.

If he was honest, it would be difficult to miss. The target was a stout, tubby man with very little neck and a huge head. He struck an overbearing figure in the evening light, a fake grin plastered on his ruddy face as he drank with his rich friends. He wasn't a young man, already balding; the patch at the back of his curly head glinting in the sun like a shiny, flesh coloured bulls eye.

He was a sniper's dream come true.

This evening the target was attending a colleague's dinner party and had dressed for the occasion. Clint watched as he lounged around with a generous glass of champagne in his hand, not a care in the world. His dress shirt strained against the swell of his stomach, the buttons threatening to give way under the stress.

Clint took in another deep breath, gauging the distance and aiming carefully. There was no scope to aid his shot; after all he only owned a standardised pistol which wasn't ideal in the slightest. The gun wasn't built for this but Clint was certain he could make it work. He had to. This was he start of a whole new life for him. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. He wouldn't.

A chilly gust of wind blustered straight through the thin material of Clint's shirt and he shivered, his fingers numb and his nose tinged red. Adjusting himself a little, Clint tried to get a clearer view of the gardens below. He was about three storeys above them on a neighbouring apartment complex's rooftop. It was near impossible for anyone down below to spot him. But still, Clint couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him and it was making him twitchy.

Clint knew his hands were shaking a little but he tightened their grip on his gun and ignored it. With a newfound determination he concentrated on his breathing; focusing until the world narrowed down. Shrinking to just him, his gun and his target. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out. A little to the left. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Squeeze the trigger.

The crack of gunfire shattered the silent evening air and Clint winced, his fingers stinging from the recoil. He didn't wait to watch the man fall, sprinting across the open rooftop, the screams of horror ringing in his ears as he went. Next time he would be faster.

His breathing was harsh and far too loud as it echoed against the stairwell walls as he ran. Taking the stairs two at a time Clint very nearly dropped his gun when he shoved it in the back of his pants. He only just managed to bring himself to a halt before he made it to the entrance hall that was thankfully vacant. In a disorganised panic Clint adjusted his ratty old T-shirt and jeans to hide his gun a little better before stepping out into the crowded street. Terrified party guests were already swarming onto the sidewalk; an effective distraction for his escape. Clint made an impressive show of gawking at the distressed party-goers as he passed by.

He thought he was doing a pretty good job too, even if his heart was thumping against his ribs far too fast. His hands still trembled and Clint irritably shoved them into his pockets. He didn't allow his mind to wander to the man now lying five storeys above him, gurgling and choking, drowning in his own blood because of Clint's job well done.

A sour taste entered his mouth at the thought and Clint ignored it. He felt a little dizzy, a little queasy, but nothing else. This one had gone far better than the last two. At least this time he hadn't been seen, he hadn't dropped his gun, nor had he immediately chucked up his breakfast after the deed was done. Yes, he decided, almost proud of himself. Much better.

People said it got easier the more you did it. For his third attempt Clint thought he was doing rather well. He was a natural, if you will. Barney would be proud.

The thought brought the smallest of smiles to his face.

It was probably through his distraction that he didn't see the girl coming until she was directly on top of him, slamming into him at a run. "Hey! Watch where you're- God, are you okay?"

The girl was short and slight, a teenager of around sixteen with tears dripping down her cheeks and terror in her eyes. Curly brown hair flopped across her pretty face, her breathing shaky and uneven. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at Clint with a startling relief that froze him in place. Without warning she surged forwards, wrapping her skinny arms around his waist in an astonishingly tight bear-hug. "Mama, she's g-gone," she cried into his chest, her voice pathetic and small. "I can't find m-my mama."

Stumbling a little under the sheer force of the hug, Clint found himself stiffly patting her on the shoulder. He was unsure what else to do or how to pry her off without upsetting her further. She cried silently for a few more moments until she suddenly tensed under his hands. After an awkward second she released him, looking heartbroken but, to Clint's relief, no longer crying. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling softly. "Oh my god, s-sorry, sir. I- I thought you were someone else," she said, her pale cheeks flushed pink with mortification.

"Its fine," Clint forced out after a moment, still in shock at the unexpected touch. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him like that. It had probably been Barney, years ago. Years before Barney had learned to hate him. God those had been good days.

The strange girl blushed harder, nodding quickly before scampering past him, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight. Clint stared after her for a long moment, confused and rooted to the spot. That is until a blast of biting wind tore through his clothes, snapping him out of it and he turned, sprinting off in the opposite direction.

Clint was unfamiliar with huge cities like New York. After a childhood spent in a town that could hardly boast a corner shop, the sheer amount of people could never failed to amaze him. If there was a place for him anywhere, he thought New York would be where he'd find it. As the advertisements promised this was the city where dreams come true. People rose and fell at the drop of a hat under the spotlight of a thousand eyes and Clint adored it.

That didn't mean he knew what he was doing.

The truth was he was new to the whole 'Hit-man' thing. Actually he was new to the whole 'murder' thing in general, really. Nineteen years old and he'd never had a 'normal' job in his life. Like most people his age, he'd thought bussing tables or bartending to be among his first options, not shooting rich jackasses in the head. Yet, here he was, on his way to collect his first pay check from his new 'job'.

He wasn't complaining.

Clint hesitantly approached the meeting point; his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets for warmth. The place was not far from the harbour, the air heavy with stench of spilled oil and the salt from the Hudson pricked at Clint's nose despite the distance. The warehouse itself was abandoned and boy did it show; the once sliver tin on the roof now the burnt orange of rust and the windows smashed in years ago. Striking graffiti scrawled up and down the huge concrete blocks that made up the walls.

Though, when Clint slipped inside he found it wasn't as deserted as it might appear. Inside the vast open space was a group of men, four Clint counted, dressed in casual clothing and talking in low voices while they waited. Clint noted that it was pretty strange that so many people were needed for a momentary transaction. Still he dismissed the thought. Confident in his own abilities and spurred on by the promise of a full belly and clothes that weren't worn through rags, Clint didn't even hesitate.

The group fell silent when he waltzed in and one broke away to meet him. The guy was a tall white fucker with dark hair gelled back in an ugly modern re-vamp of an older style. Still, he was young, younger than Clint, maybe 17? He had a wide, square face and held himself slightly slumped, like he had a bad back or something. It took Clint a few slow seconds to realise that this was the guy's attempt at looking like a gangster in front of his friends. And that...that was just sad.

When they met each other in the middle Clint gave him a confident smirk nonetheless. "Hey man, I'm here for my money."

The guy looked him up and down, unimpressed by what he saw. Clint could say that the feeling was entirely mutual. The dude gave off a jaw dropping air of spoiled brat; you could practically smell the trust fund on him. The watch on this prick's wrist could keep Clint fed and sheltered for a month easy. But Clint didn't care who his client was, so long as he got his money.

"The job's done?" the kid asked doubtfully, an almost expectant look on his face.

"What do you want, his head on a platter? It's done. Give me my money so I can get out of here," Clint insisted, drawing himself up to his full height though the kid was a good two inches taller than him. Clint couldn't help but feel his intimidation tactics were a little below par for someone who just killed a man for money.

He could see the kid's friends watching with interest, hovering ominously in his peripheral vision. A gun could be seen poking out of one guy's pocket. Clint frowned, trying not to allow his fear to show on his face.

"Sure, whatever man," the kid said in a mocking imitation of Clint's accent, glancing to his friends with a playful smirk. But when he turned to Clint the grin dropped from his face, dead serious. "You didn't tell anyone else about this, right? You're the only one who knows?"

As soon as the words left that kid's mouth Clint noticed two of the guy's friends suddenly weren't where Clint thought they were. A jolt of panic shooting through him Clint had the good sense to turn and bolt for the door. But of course, there they were, the missing thug-wannabes in all their hulking glory, blocking his exit with twirling bowie knives.

His heart thundering in his ears Clint reached into his pants to grab his gun, ready to kill some bitches. To his horror his hand closed on thin air.

This entire situation was suddenly far worse than he had first thought.

"Fuck," Clint swore angrily, just before something hard struck on the back of the head, black spots bursting across his vision. Dazed, Clint turned to face his attacker, a weak hand held up to protect his face. Another blow slammed into him, this time aimed at his face and the impact sent him to his knees with an agonised groan. A third, and final swing connected with his temple and he crumpled like a puppet with the strings cut.

He did not get up.

Breathing was becoming more of a challenge with every second that ticked by. Clint's chest ached with every inhale. He was pretty sure he had a few either broken or bruised ribs which were always a special kind of fun. Droplets of sweat and blood trickled down the side of his face as he made an effort not to move, his harsh panting echoing around the room.

Of course, none of this was enough to shut him up.

"Honestly fellas," he wheezed breathlessly, "I was expecting more from you than th- mmf." Clint doubled over in pain as one of the men landed another solid punch to his abdomen. The movement jostled his ribs and ripped the skin around the gunshot wound in his shoulder. He barely bit back the scream that clawed its way up his throat.

Everything hurt. His concussions had concussions and the amount of blood that covered his shirt was more worrying than he was willing to admit. Safe to say, internally, Clint was starting to freak out. There was no hope for escape, and he knew it. Which really fucking sucked.

Taking a deep breath, Clint tried his best not to focus on that because he refused to spend his last few moments tormenting himself over his own fate. That was just ridiculous. Instead, Clint tried to figure out the mystery of his disappearing firearm.

There was only one possible culprit, or at least in his mind. His only question was; why?

She was a street kid, he assumed, which didn't help matters. After all, maybe he could see through it if she'd snagged his wallet or his ID card too, but hell even that made little sense.

Clint had spent his fair share of time on the streets; he knew the type of person who made a good target. Some upper class moron who's filthy rich enough not to keep a protective hand over their pocket at all times. They were more plentiful than you would believe, especially around this part of town and an easy meal ticket if you knew what you were doing. Still, it was a bill Clint certainly didn't fit. So...why?

He was almost honoured to witness such a professional at work. Her acting was Oscar worthy and her fingers so light he hadn't felt the gun leave the back of his pants. It was an astonishing feat he definitely couldn't have pulled off at her age. Hell he may even grudgingly respect her for it if he weren't far too bitter for that.

In his defence, the kid took his fucking gun. Clint reserved the right to be a little petty when the girl's party trick had left him bleeding out while these idiots played at being the criminals they saw on TV. Not even good TV criminals either; the cheesy one-liner sprouting kind.

If this was how Clint Barton died he was going to be so fucking pissed.

Someone grabbed a handful of Clint's damp hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look the leader directly in his beady little eyes. They'd been introduced a few minutes ago, his name was Karl. Not a name that struck fear into Clint's heart, that was for sure. The movement was followed by the hard press of a gun against the skin of Clint's temple which, honestly, was just overkill at this point.

"Hey, are you listening to me? I swear to God I'll shoot you dead right now, fucker, listen up," he shouted in Clint's face. "Answer the fucking question."

Clint frowned as the kid swam in and out of focus and vaguely wondered what the hell the guy was talking about. His thoughts were slow and murky like his mind was coated in a thick, impenetrable layer of oil. Which...probably wasn't a positive sign.

"Oh yeah...right," Clint mumbled under his breath, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision. "Wha's the question, 'gain?"

He received a smack across the face for his efforts, which really didn't help matters.

The gun pressed even harder into his temple. "Who the fuck did you tell?! Answer me goddamnit or you're a dead man. I swear," Karl promised, his face flushed and his other hand shaking where he held Clint by the hair.

To his credit, Clint held back his disbelieving laugh.

He'd seen how Karl had turned a ghastly shade of grey after he'd shot Clint in the shoulder after one tiny joke about his mom went a little bit too far. It was obvious Karl didn't have the balls to follow through with his threats. After all, a straight up head shot was liable to send him into a dead faint - which would be as ironic as it would be pathetic.

"Well, he was really tall - or wait, maybe he was short. Between?" Clint hissed a laugh with a touch more hysteria than he would like. "Hey, maybe he wasn't a he at all. I don't pay attention to these things."

The murky blur of Karl's face didn't seem pleased with the answer.

"Just shoot him already, Karl. We need to get out of here," one of his friends piped up, sounding impatient. "He's probably bluffing anyway."

"And if he isn't?" Karl argued, his face once again turning that awful shade of grey as his eyes drifted to Clint's blood soaked shirt.

Clint strained against his restraints to push himself closer to Karl's ugly face, his ribs screaming in protest at the movement. Hell, any closer and he could've head-butted the bastard. "Then you fuckers are goin' down with me," he growled, low and angry.

Karl's lip curled in hatred and Clint fell back, grinning at a job well done. "He might have more information," Karl tried, but the excuse was weak and his friends didn't buy it. Neither did Clint, honestly.

"No, I really don't," he supplied helpfully, a kind of numbness settling over his entire body. It felt wonderful, almost euphoric. He closed his eyes against the fuzzy world, exhausted. He felt strangely accepting of everything, which was never something he thought he'd be. Must be the concussion talking, or the blood loss, or possibly both. "Just fucking shoot me already."

He could hear Karl's harsh breathing, his friend - now having gained a little confidence - offering words of encouragement now and again. The cold press of Karl's pistol was back again and Clint couldn't find it in himself to care. Somewhere inside himself he knew he should be fighting it, but he was too tired to do anything about that now.

Then, to Clint's surprise the tension in the air was split - not with a gunshot - but a loud, sickening crack, followed by another a few seconds later. There was a terrified shout and then another indiscernible popping sound. Karl's friend stopped talking mid-sentence.

Karl's breathing had picked up tenfold. The gun left Clint's forehead and two shots were fired; the sound ringing painfully in Clint's ears.

When Clint managed to force his eyes to open, he was just in time to see a teenage girl violently twist Karl's head at an unnatural angle. The sickening snap of bone echoed off the walls before his lifeless body fell to the ground with a dull thud.

It was the girl from earlier, a dead look in her eyes as she stalked towards Clint without a second of hesitation. If he had the energy to move, Clint imagined he would've strained against the ropes that twisted around his body. Fought for his life, even said something. As it was, he couldn't. He just followed the girl's progress with his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Hey, on the plus side, this was a far more interesting way to go than the standard job-gone-wrong shtick. He got to be killed by a Spy Kids reject. Lucky him, right?

When she reached him, the girl's eyes raked over the blood drenching his shirt, the clammy sweat on his skin and the bruises swelling at his face. Her face was completely expressionless, unperturbed.

Her hands came to either side of his face, looking him deep in the eyes and Clint's breathing quickened on instinct. He waited for her to jerk his neck in a direction his neck should not go. A quick snap and his life would be gone. Clint wasn't sure he'd ever felt so breakable before, so fragile.

In a motion so quick Clint hardly even saw it she ripped his shirt open and studied his bullet wound, her face still completely emotionless. Like she saw this shit every day.

If he'd been feeling even a little better Clint would probably have made a joke about being a classy lady and not putting out on the first date. As it was, all he could do was let out an embarrassing whimper of fear when he saw her remove a small, wicked looking knife from her hoodie pocket. Clint's heart dropped to his mouth. Fuck, why did those assholes deserve the quick deaths? This just wasn't fair. It was her goddamned fault he was here in the first place.

She gave him a sharp look that told him if he so much as breathed too loud she would draw this out even longer. Clint did his best to take the hint.

When seconds later she pushed her fingers into his gunshot wound and dug around Clint could only bite down on his scream. Broken whimpers escaped no matter how hard he fought, sweat beading his brow, his breathing fast and ragged.

The minutes ticked by. Clint didn't lose consciousness until what felt like hours later; her knife wet with his blood and his head full of cotton candy.

He was sure the relief was mutual.

**February 13th 2006**

When he woke up in a hospital the next day Clint learned that they'd found him lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood. He had a bullet wound in his shoulder with no bullet in it and a mild concussion that made the doctors poke him awake when he tried to fall asleep.

They wouldn't stop asking him the goddamned date, always looking worried when he didn't know it. They asked more questions, some simple shit, some that he hadn't stayed in school long enough to learn about. Those were the ones that made them scowl at him like he was doing it on purpose. It was irritating and strange and it made him feel stupid. But it was better than being dead. Definitely better than that.

Clint noticed there had been no mention of the four dead men he should've been found with. Clint assumed the girl had taken care of them somehow. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how. He also didn't tell anyone about her; straight up lying to the cops that came to interview him an hour after he woke up.

When he skipped town a few hours later Clint made sure to drop a false trail or two to make sure the mysterious teenager would escape the cop's investigation undetected.

It was the least he could do, he thought.