AN: Thank you for those that have reviewed so far! The circus isn't a really nice place is it... I apologise in advance for the errors in the military protocols I am making. A special thanks to Wikipedia for helping out on a few bits a pieces!
Disclaimer: Marvel owns Hawkeye but Stan Lee pinky swore he'd give me a cameo in his next movie!
Clinthad just turned eighteen when the trip to Washinton, DC had changed his life.
The circus set up in an arena, and Clint had some time to himself. Usually, they set up on the outskirts of a town, and he could find a spot behind a tent where no one would bother him. Cities were harder, but he could usually still find a spot that was quiet, and big enough to shoot for a while. This time, the only quiet spot he found was the dressing room, and a couple of giggling carnies going at it quickly forced him outside.
Sighing, he decided to walk. He was in Washington DC, and maybe there was a range, or something he could practice at. He had a hundred or so dollars in his sock from the shows he had done. Not much but it was something. So he set on his way, letting himself get lost in the scurrying streets.
He passed a mall, filled with people shopping and chatting. He past a school while children played at recess, screaming and laughing. He passed skyscrapers with men and women in suits working and walking like ants on a mission. He passed a war monument, depicting several soldiers charging forward. The bottom was littered with names.
Clint was not what you could call a moral person. But he tried. He tried to do what was right, no matter what it was. It was not always pleasant, but he liked to think it was still the right thing to do.
Why had he decided to walk? He hated thinking too much. He always dwelt on bad things. Bad things in his past, or his present, or in his future, things that had not yet happened, but that could easily come to pass. His death, or a bad injury, or getting caught killing someone. All these could change his tiny little world. He forced himself to observe everything around him that linger on the thoughts inside his head.
Just past the memorial was another office building. Only this one had people in uniform passing in and out, as well as people in suits. He walked faster, as if he had a giant sign on his forehead that said, 'I've killed people, and I might do it again soon.' The lead ticket changer had beaten two of the younger carnies this week, he was next on the list.
He kept going. He wandered the streets for most of the day, forcing himself to think of nothing other than observing the world around him, returning to the arena in time for the show that night. His bow waited for him, but it was really the only thing. Everyone else bustled, not paying him a second of attention. He slipped through the backstage area, not seen and not heard, but not cared for either.
After the show, Clint was having a little whiskey he had stolen from the acrobats cart in a niche he made for himself in the corner of the arena. They had scored a whole box full, he doubted it would be missed. He hope the next city would have a space for him to train. he took a small swig when he heard the loud familiar voices. Any other day he would have had the brains to stay away. But he recognied one of the voices at once. One was Barney's. He slowly rose from his nest, before peering around the corner at the arguing pair. He stifled a sigh when he saw it was Trickshot.
« Barney, if you don't give me my share, things could get ugly. Your brother is not the only person who can hit a mark. »
« You will get your share. I need to get Carson off my trail. And then the money is yours. »
Clint stiffened. This was not right.
« Good. I would hate to be forced out of my early retirement because of a slimeball like you. He made twice as much as I have in half the time. The little son of a bitch. »
Clint was suddenly aware that his breathing was not steady. His brother was swindling again, but Clint was certain that Carson knew nothing about it.
« Don't worry. I haven't been running this for six years to screw up now. »
Six years. Wait a second, that was as long as he had been performing. Suddenly Clint felt very cold. He knew exactly where the money was coming from, why Carson was suspicious and who the son of a bitch was. The money had been given to Barney, as Clint's 'guardian'. Carson had managed to notice (finally) that one of his star performers had never gotten the new bow, or fresh clothing, or maybe even a decent meal other than the ones the cooks made or he hunted for himself. The son of a bitch was Clint, and Trickshot was pissed at him. Well, at least that wasn't news. Ever since Clint's act had become a part of the circus, the man had been a jealous idiot.
Clint knew he needed to do something. But he couldn't kill his brother. Or his mentor.
« Good. I have a trip to California in the morning. If all goes well. »
Clint took a deep breath. He made up his mind. If he couldn't stop his brother he would turn him in. And Trickshot. He had to. He was legal now, the money was rightfully his, and it never made it into his hands. It was what was right.
He rounded the corner.
« Barney. What the hell are you doing. »
Barney whirled, but Clint felt his blood freeze. It wasn't just Barney and Trickshot. They had two other carnies. The master liontamer, a man well into his seventies who could whield a whip like no other. And a caretaker, the one in charge of the animal stalls. Barney stared at his brother. Clint knew that look. He was calculating something. Deep in his gut, Clint knew he was calculating Clint's value.
Trickshot on the other hand, did not hesitate. His bow was up and his arrow was aimed directly at Clint. The last swallowed hard when he realised he had not even brought his weapon with him.
He had not bargained for this. He might have been able to convince his brother to turn himself in. He could have beaten Trickshot without killing him. But now he was outnumbered and he knew it.
« He overheard us. » growled the tamer.
« Clint. Just go. » Barney looked as if he might just regret something. It was not a look Clint had seen on his brother's face before.
« I can't. » he said. He stood by his decision, regardless of the fact he couldn't win.
It was close who moved first. Trickshot's arrow grazed his knee as he dodged, but he was not quick enough to avoid the whip which caught him in the stomach as he tried to come up. He doubled over winded, when the caretaker wacked him on the head. He was on the ground, seeing stars.
« He knows. He's a liablity. » He heard Trickshot saying as he notched another arrow.
« Agreed. » He felt the steel toed boot of the caretaker connect with his ribs, and it was all he could do not to cry out as he felt them break. More hits came. More hits fell. He felt his arm break as a shoe stepped on it. He saw his brother's face stare down at him, blurry and doubling, but not intervening. Clint saw more than felt the arrow enter his calf. The hits kept raining down, until finally, mercifully, after he could no longer tell who was kicking him, blackness took over.
He woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. Pain was suffocating every muscle in his body and it was all he could do to open his eyes.
He had expected to be on the cold cement floor, in a pool of his own blood. He had expected to be in a ditch on the side of the freeway, where he might have been dumped. He did not expect to be in a bed. He did not expect to have someone shuffling near by. But it put him on edge right away. He tried to sit up but he found he couldn't move.
« Don't move too much. Might hur' more. » The gravelly voice said. He was sure it was not one he knew. He forced his eyes to focus on the white haired man handing him a glass.
« Relax. It's water. »
The old man helped tip the cup so Clint could drink.
« Where am I? He asked when he could finally talk.
« The janitor's closet. Two days. You're beat up pretty good. »
He felt like it. Slowly, he did a check of every limb. His left leg felt like it was on fire, but the arrow had clearly missed the important stuff. His right wrist felt more like it had been stuffed with needles. Everything else was sore, blue, and stiff. His head was bout ready to split. Still, he forced himself to lean up on his elbows. It was as far as he could go right now.
He was in a tiny janitor's closet. Along two walls were mops and brooms, as well as a large variety of cleaning supplies. He was suddenly aware of the smell of ammonia in the air. A desk occupied one corner, and the man was sitting on a strait back wooden chair. The only other thing in the room was the bed he was lying on. There wasn't even a window.
« The circus... »
« Left without ya. » The man said gruffly.
He slumped back on the stained pillow. The circus was gone. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one left, and he could barely walk.
His life just knew how to suck.
It took him three days before he was able to walk on his own again. The janitor, a man by the name of Ted, was kind, if distant. He fed Clint and gave him water, told him he could stay on the cot as long as he liked. But Clint left on the fourth day. He wasn't able to get very far. He made it as far as the back alley of the arena, and could wander no further. That night, he slept in the alley.
When he woke up, he registered two things. Cold and pain. Forcing himself to his feet, he took stock again.
He was alone, without a place to sleep, the hundred dollars in his sock that his brother had not found, and he had nothing else left in his life.
Trying to figure out what the hell to do, he was about to make it down the alley when something in the dumpster next to him caught his eye. Suddenly, a grin appeared on his broken, homeless, cold and painfilled face.
His bow was lying on top of the bags of garbage.
A week later, Clint was still on the streets of Washington DC. He scrounged what he could from dumpsters, only dipping into his small amount of cash once to purchase food.
He ducked into a free clinic, where a shaddy looking doctor patched him up a little bit better than Ted had. But other than that he stayed as far away from people as he could. He climbed up fire escapes, and slept on the rooftops, where he felt safest. He carried nothing with him other than his bow and two arrows. Using back alleys, the cover of darkness and every skill he had learnt in the circus, he passed unseen by just about everyone. His injuries still hurt a lot, especially when he ignored them to climb up a building, but were healing quickly enough.
It was by pure accident that he discovered the sewers. A night excursion that led to a contruction site, an open man hole and pure curiosity. He explored all night, making his way around, memorising tunnels and the way around. As soon as morning came, and he heard sounds of men approaching, he scarpered, back to the rooftops, but with the sewers in his mind if ever he needed an escape route.
He wondered what he was supposed to do now. Live out of a cardboard box with his trusty bow for the rest of his life. No. He needed something more. Clint Barton was a lot of sad, and pathetic things, but homeless was not one he wanted to stick with.
The first time he passed the poster, he blew it off. No way he could do it. It was hanging on a bus as it passed him. He watched the bus go by from a fire escape he had climbed and camouflaged on.
The second time, he imagined himself there trying to help. It was on the outside of a school, clearly trying to attract young people. The school was really just an old building, almost identical to the ones next to it apart from the sign across the top of the doorway. It was strange to see people his age, happy, smiling, laughing together. He wondered if he could have been one of them somehow, but it was too hard to grasp.
The third time, he paused and imagined going to the office to sign up. The sign was hanging crookedly in a bathroom of a department store he had snuck in to fantasy ended quickly when it led to him being arrested. Well, maybe in jail he might have a hot meal and a bed. It might be a place to start again. He wondered if he could stand being in a single tiny room for days on end and decided he would rather be kicked by his brother in the chest again.
The fourth time, he decided to give it a try. He was walking by the big military headquarters he had seen the day he had overheard his brother. It was hanging in the front window, portraying a young man in fatigues saluting on a blue sky backdrop. Hesitant, but determined not to live on the street any longer he made his way in, up to the front desk.
« How can I help you? » the girl at the front desk was wearing a cap, a uniform and, as soon as she looked at him, a concerned look. « Are you alright sir? » On her lapel was a nametag that read Prvt. N. Reed, in neat blue letters. He held her gaze as steadily as he could.
« Yeah. I'm fine. I'd like to join up. »
« No offense sir but you hardly look... »
« Please. » He asked as nicely as he could. She gave him a once over, and he saw her eyes fix on the muscles beneath his dirty shirt, before returning into his steel gaze. He felt himself being scanned and put up a wall, an expression of stone he had perfected years ago.
« One moment please. » She gestured to one of the hard plastic chairs next to the desk, before walking away briskly. He wondered for a moment if she was going to get security, as he sat down, ignoring the pain in his calf.
She hadn't. She had gotten a large man with a buzz cut and hard eyes. He too was in uniform. Clint, who liked to think he was not easily intimidated, was suddenly nervous.
« Norah seems to think you might have potential. Follow me. » He walked behind the recruitment officer. That is what Clint guess he was. It was a little odd being told what to do, but Clint found it quite comforting. He was not in charge of his actions, someone else was. He was led to a small room with an aluminum table, and asked to sit down. The man glared at him.
« So. Name? » The large man asked it harshly, straight to the point. Clint swallowed.
« Clinton Francis Barton. » He was amazed at himself, that he had not lied.
« Major Thomas Garfield. » The major stared at him some more, as if he was trying to see through the smelly teen in front of him and Clint had to say it might just be working.
« Age? »
« Eighteen. Sir. » The ring master had always like to be called sir. Maybe this guy would too.
« And what division would you like to join? » The man was still glaring, but his tone was almost mocking. Guess the polite thing wasn't really working.
« Any one. I don't really care which. » Air force, Army, Navy, Marines, any would do. He just wanted a way to make the world better. Something to do with his life that could maybe use the skills he already had.
« And why on earth would a runaway teen with a bad smell walk into the Army headquarters and ask to join our country's finest? »
Clint thought about that one. Of all the things he could have done, (and let's face it, his options were fairly limited) why on did he think he could be a soldier? For a single second he flashed back to his earliest memories.
Barney had gotten a plane. A little plastic one, and was flying it around the playroom, jumping on the couches and blowing his lips as he went. His father was laughing and his mother was taking a picture. Clint was watching. He could not have been very old. Maybe two or three. But he remember the plane. He remember the flying.
All his life, he had been fighting. When he had begun his vigilante routine in the circus, it had been to make a better place. He was used to fighting. War was the same thing, under different circumstances
« I want to fight for something. »
The major looked at him hard and long. Clint was already planning his next move, to try and get a job somewhere else, when the man in front of him spoke up.
« Follow me. » Clint got up, trying desperately not to trip over his own feet. Major Garfield led him down another hallway, past a large number of people rushing to and fro, some with papers and others just striding along. He stopped at a washroom, and turned to Clint.
« Medical exam on the other end. Get in line. And shower first. You smell like a sewer. »
The man left Clint standing there.
The shower felt like heaven. The medical exam was much less scary than Clint had thought. Two doctors took his height and weight as well as blood and pee. One looked into his eyes, another checked his ears. They pulled a huge machine and stepped out of the room, for a moment, telling him it was an x-ray. Finally, they gave him a clean shirt, and a pair of pants, before sitting him down in a small waiting room.
A long hour later, Major Garfield appeared again. His expression had changed. This time it was a little disbelieving.
« Barton? »
Clint stood up, trying to hide his wince.
« Son, you have twenty over eight vision acuity. Your hearing is above average. Muscle mass is determined as strong, low fat content. Currently malnourished and dehydrated. Four broken ribs and a broken wrist. Nose shows signs of previous breaks. Only record of a Clinton Barton is from a Kansas foster home, saying the boy ran away years back, and was never found after. What exactly is your story? »
Clint stared back and this time he felt nothing more than resigned.
« The truth? »
« All of it. » Clint took a deep breath.
« My parents died when I was four. I was put in foster homes until I was seven, and then ran away with the Carson's Carnival of Wonders. I learnt archery from one performer, and became an act in the show, under the name of Hawkeye. I was kick out of the circus a week and a half ago. »
Clint could not remember the last time he had spoken so much at once. The Major simply glanced him, before opening the file in his hand.
« Normally, we would send you to training right away if only because your vision scores are so high. You would make a great sniper based on those stats alone. However, I can't help but want to shed some light on a strange kid from nowhere, with not even a high school education, of which we have no record of since he was six years old, who shows up out of the blue and wants to be a soldier. Psych eval is next. We will base our decision on that. »
He turned to leave. Clint sat back down.
The psych evaluation turned out to be much more intimidating to Clint than the physical. Maybe because he knew he could ace the physical, even with his recovering injuries. Maybe because he didn't know if he was sane or not. Maybe it was just talking so much.
For an hour and a half, Clint answered all the questions about himself. And for almost every single one, he told the complete truth. What had made him run away from the foster home. Why had he joined the circus. Who did he interact with there. All up until the question of why he left. Clint thought very carefully before spinning his lie.
« I was kinda done with being a star. Its not something I wanted. So I left. » The best lies are in truth, he learnt, as the therapist in front of him made a small note. When asked how he acquired his injuries, he said he had been mugged a few days ago. And with that the interview was over.
Major Garfield was back within another hour, this time with an impressed look on his face.
« Congratulations. We're sending you to training tomorrow in San Antonio. Train leaves at 8am sharp. Don't be late. » Clint allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He was in.
Thank you for Reading! Please tell me what you think, I have no idea if this is worth continuing or not right now...