Fury moves quickly here. Clint doesn't have much in the way of options.

When Clint woke up the next morning, he rolled over and immediately sat up with a hiss. He was sore, everywhere, worse than yesterday. Looking at his watch, he realized that he still had a couple hours until Coulson said he'd show up, so he took a chance that Coulson was telling the truth about the mess hall serving food at any time; pressing two on the phone, he was surprised when somebody answered. "Hey, can I, uh, get something to eat?"

"Name?" The voice said.

"Clint...Clint Barton."

"Thank you, Mr. Barton. We will bring you something shortly."

Clint slowly rolled his shoulders as he climbed out of bed, hoping that by working his muscles some they'd loosen up before he had to start using his bow. He picked up his clothing and opened his duffel bag, pulling out clean clothing. Sliding on a pair of pants as somebody knocked at the door, he opened it and thanked the person there, taking the tray and kicking the door shut with his foot. He ate quickly, then turned to unpacking.

By the time there was another knock on the door, Clint had unpacked, found that a hot shower helped the stiffness, and was checking on the status of his bows while watching cartoons on the TV. He hoped that whoever had moved his bag had been careful...but he still didn't trust them to have not dropped it. "It's open!" he called out, looking up as Coulson entered.

"Day two, you ready?" Coulson asked as a greeting. "You got breakfast already, so bring your gear and lets head over to the range. We've got arrows there, and another bow that you may like better than the two you have. We're also going to check you out on firearms."

"Okay." Clint turned off the television, picking up his bows and heading for the door.

"ID, Barton."

"Oh, yeah." Putting his bows down, Clint clipped the badge onto his shirt. "Good?"

"Better." Coulson led the way out of the room and to the elevator. Hitting one of the buttons, Clint felt the elevator start to descend. "The range is in the basement, be prepared to be spending a lot of time there over the next week, and if you stick around, you'll be expected to be there daily. Early morning is usually one of the better times, since everybody at SHIELD is expected to be qualified on at least one firearm and the scientists here have a tendency to go in the afternoon and early evening." The elevator slowed, then stopped.

Clint wasn't sure what to expect when the door to the range opened, but he knew that it wouldn't be the pile of straw with paper stuck to it that he normally used to practice. Coulson showed him the armory, handing Clint a quiver with arrows and picking up a case. "Bow first. Let's see your two, then I want you to try out one of ours. After that, firearms."

Clint nodded, slinging the quiver over his back. Heading to a lane, he put the bows down on the table, before pulling out an arrow and taking a look at it. It was a bit lighter than what he was used to, but he figured that it wouldn't be a problem. He looked over at Coulson.

"Five arrows with each bow at each distance, I'll call out targets."

Clint nodded, taking a deep breath, before starting. He very quickly fell into a smooth rhythm, shifting targets as Coulson called them out, and only when his hand reached into the empty quiver did he realize that he'd gone through all the arrows and both of his bows. The targets were riddled with arrows in small groups.

Coulson nodded. "Take a break while the range gets reset. Have a drink, then I want you to try this out." He handed Clint a bottle of water, then opened one of the cases, revealing a compound bow. Clint ignored the water, staring at the bow, one hand stretched out. This wasn't one for showing off or performing for a group, this was a bow that was meant to be used to shoot arrows. A bow that made the archer in him drool, one that he'd never be able to afford, not that it'd be good to use in the circus. It wouldn't put the audience in the right mindset. "Hold on Barton, wait for the range to be cleared, and you'll need more arrows."

Clint heard the instructions, but still reached out to pick up the bow. Putting the water down, he held the bow up, drawing the string back. It felt...right, a promise that the past twenty years of his life hadn't been for nothing. He looked at Coulson, releasing the tension on the bow and lowering it. "I'm in."

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that, because I do not want to hear your answer until I ask for it." Coulson didn't look at Clint, instead accepting a full quiver from one of the workers at the range, passing it to Clint. "So, try this one out."

Clint obeyed. The bow was even better than he'd first thought, and he wasn't quite sure, but he thought that his accuracy at the longest ranges even increased slightly. He loved it, and didn't want the feeling to end. A tap on his shoulder startled him, and he released the string sloppily, hissing slightly as it slapped against his arm.

"That's good," Coulson said. "How do you feel?"

Clint shrugged. "Good. It's a nice bow, easy to use."

"No problems going from the straight or recurve to a compound? Need gloves or a bracer?"

Clint looked down at his hands and arms. "Yeah, probably should have used them." He shrugged. "But this once won't do anything terrible."

A pair of gloves were tossed down onto the table, followed by earplugs and glasses. "Firearms. What can you tell me about safety?"

Clint regretfully put the bow down, and slid on the gloves. "Always assume a gun is loaded, even if it isn't. Don't point it at anybody. Guns are not toys."

"Good for now. Range rules for firearms. Always wear gloves and eye and hearing protection. Shoot only at your assigned target. Follow all instructions of the rangemaster. This particular room is for things with a shorter range, we made an exception for your bows this morning although that may change depending on what the analysts say after they get a look at the video. There are other places to use bigger things, we've got a range that's a bit longer also on this level. SHIELD has a wide variety of handguns; we'll start you off with this one today. It's a Beretta, one of the more popular guns here." One of the range workers had come over while Coulson was talking. Coulson moved back, and the man placed a handgun down on the table, along with two clips. "I'm Joe. So. Safety is here, this is how you load it."

Clint followed the instructions. The sound of the gun firing made him jump, and he saw that he not only missed the center of the target, he had missed the target completely. Coulson and Joe nodded, as if they were having suspicions confirmed. Throttling down his irritation at his failure, Clint simply listened to the instructions he was given, adjusting his stance, his grip, and tried again. He hit the target this time. At the indication that he should keep firing, he emptied the clip, and then the second, with the last three shots if not dead center, then pretty close.

"Good," Coulson sounded slightly surprised. "Your assignment is to spend at least ninety minutes each day with firearms until told otherwise." He sat down with Clint, giving him a lesson in cleaning his weapons, glancing at his watch. "Dentist."

Clint was meek during the dental exam, if only because he could see that the instruments they were putting in his mouth were very sharp and pointed, and Coulson was standing right there, looking at Clint with a warning in his eyes. He was handed more papers, as well as a warning from the dentist – follow the instructions, or else he'd be lucky to still have all his teeth by the time he hit thirty. As it was, he needed to return later in the week to get the cavities filled. But, he was handed a small bag with a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and dental floss and the admonition to use them. A side trip to his room let Clint drop everything off, rinse his mouth out again, and then Coulson led him to the mess hall, leaving him there with a reminder that he was not to leave the room until Coulson personally returned in no more than thirty minutes.

Eyeing the options, Clint chose things that looked soft, mindful of his sore mouth. Finding a seat at an empty table, he sat with his back to the wall and slowly started eating. He looked up as a tray was placed on the table across from him and the man from yesterday – Sitwell, he remembered – sat down.

"Fun stuff here, huh?" Sitwell looked excited. "I knew that there were breakthroughs being made, but not at the level that they had here! Just think, that new mobile phone technology? They've somehow managed to combine it with an alpha-numeric pager. Imagine what sorts of things can be done with that!" He looked at Clint as more people sat down at the table. "What have they been having you do?"

Clint shrugged. "Orientation. Shooting. Testing. Dragged me to the dentist this morning. Stuff like that." He was starting to feel boxed in, and the looks that a couple of the men were giving him was putting him on edge. He focused on the fruit cup he'd grabbed, scooping out a piece of strawberry.

"Dentist? Why?" One of the guys sitting next to Sitwell leaned over.

"Yeah." Clint didn't feel like explaining. "Just 'cause." He finished the fruit, and picked up the pudding.

"So, why are you here? You're not science, and not tech." The man kept on digging. "Only saw you yesterday morning; all the other group stuff you haven't been at. And shooting? Already? They aren't letting us near the range until we've gone through all the classroom sessions first."

Clint's eyes darted around the room, looking for an out. He got it, as he saw Coulson making his way across the room. He shrugged again, eating his pudding quickly. "Not science or tech."

"He's security, and that's all that you need to know at this point in time, Mr. Jones, which is why he is already going to the range." Clint had been expecting Coulson's voice, but the men on the other side of the table hadn't, and they all jumped. "You might want to work on your situational awareness, gentlemen. Had you been looking, Mr. Barton's movements and tracking of my path across the room, as well as his increased speed in eating, would have suggested that there was somebody important, to him at least, approaching. Mr. Barton, are you finished?"

"Yes, sir." Clint stood, picking up his tray.

"Leave it. We've places to be, and I'm sure that Mr. Jones will be more than pleased to clear your tray for you."

Clint hesitated, glancing between Coulson, his tray, and Jones, who was turning slightly red.

"I'll get it, you go on." Sitwell was obviously trying to salvage the situation. "He obviously looks busy."

"Barton!" Coulson's voice rang out.

"Yes sir, Agent Coulson," Clint said, hurrying to catch up. He ignored the snickers he could hear from behind him, as well as Sitwell firmly telling Jones that he was acting just like those bullies in high school, and since did he really want to annoy somebody going into security?

"You have a cover story, for now. You've been brought in as security, and anything other than that those folks don't need to know. You can tell them about you, but as to why you're here...just security." Coulson stopped in front of a door. "This is my office. Time to talk about the past day and a half."

Coulson waved Clint to a seat, then sat down behind a desk. Picking up a folder, he glanced at it, then at Clint. "If rules didn't prohibit us from competing professionally, you'd be out on that circuit both for archery and handguns so fast your head would spin, and the higher-ups are looking forward to what you can do with a bit more practice and the larger guns. We'll sneak you into sniper school someplace; they can teach you the finer points better than any of the instructors here can. Reports from medical and the dentist don't suggest that you'll need much in the way of their tender mercies, and by the time that they've done all that they want to you still won't be ready to go out in the field; it takes a while to train up field operatives like yourself." He turned a page, glancing down at the folder. "Now for the bad news. You've got, barely, a fifth-grade educational level based on your background; testing actually puts you at a bit more of a third grade level." He leaned back in his chair, staring at Clint. "You will need to get your GED, preferably by your 21st birthday." A brief flicker of his eyes, as well as a slight draft of air across Clint's neck as he heard the door click allowed the young man to brace himself for whoever was walking in the room.

"SHIELD prefers college degrees for people in your position, Mr. Barton, but we're willing to make an exception because we can use you." It was Fury, and a flash of approval in Coulson's eyes at Clint's lack of response gave Clint an odd feeling. He walked around, leaning on the edge of Coulson's desk and stared at Clint. "So, Mr. Barton. Do you think that you can do what we're asking you to do, or are you heading back to the circus?"

"Agent Coulson told me that I had a week to answer and I had to wait the week," Clint replied. "Sir." He added as an afterthought; it seemed like the right thing to do. Something about the Director put him on edge, and he felt a slow burn of anger starting to build. "I'm going to wait that week."

"I'm not Agent Coulson, and I'm asking you now. Can you, will you, do what we're asking you to do, Mr. Barton, or will we be packing you back to Coney Island and your bed on a ledge right now?"

Clint's eyes narrowed and he stood up, leaning forward into Fury's personal space. "Yes," he hissed. "I'm in. You bastards knew that as soon as I walked through the damned door yesterday, didn't you." A sideways glance at Coulson showed the man sitting back in his chair, watching, a neutral expression on his face. Staring straight into Fury's one eye, he repeated, "Didn't you."

"Sit down, Barton." Fury pushed Clint back, hand heavy in the middle of his chest. "You had better learn that that punk-ass attitude you're sporting right now isn't a good way to get anywhere, especially around here, and learn it fast."

Clint sat down, still glaring at Fury. "Not likely." He was shocked by the reaction he got – instead of anger at Clint's sullen mutter, Fury laughed, and Coulson even grinned. Clint still felt angry, but at the fact that the men were laughing and it was not at the situation.

"Good," Fury chuckled, pulling a badge from his pocket, tossing it onto Clint's lap. "Good, Probationary Agent Barton. Keep that attitude, but know when to use it and when to sit your ass down and shut the hell up. Coulson, he's still your problem." He stepped around Clint, lightly cuffing the archer on his ear, then left the room.

Coulson was actually laughing when Clint turned back around from watching the door. "So. You don't need an escort anymore, but I'd recommend using one, at least until the end of the week." Clint nodded. "New hire paperwork can wait until tomorrow, when I've some time to go over it with you." All humor left Coulson's face. "Five months, Barton, that's how much time you've got to get your GED." He leaned over, putting a couple thick books on the desk. A piece of paper was put on top. "Here's your schedule. Half a day training, half a day in here studying." A portable cassette player was added to the pile and a box of cassettes placed next to it. "If you are on the range or in the gym and want to listen to some of the taped GED study stuff. Only when you're given permission, though, at the range." Pointing at the badge in Clint's lap, he continued, "put that one, give me your old one." A small booklet was also placed on the desk with a keyring as Clint changed badges, tossing the old one on the desk. "Phone numbers and some other information, and keys for the elevators, your room, armory locker, and gym locker." He stood up, picking up some of the things on the desk. "Let's go put this stuff away in your room and go to supply; you need uniforms."

Amused, Clint picked up the rest of the things from Coulson's desk and followed the man out, heading back to his room. "Are there maps of this place or something?"

"No, but you'll learn your way around quickly, and the booklet has the floors of everything important." Coulson stood to one side of the hallway as a group of people approached. "The number you were given will also help; your room is on the 9th floor, medical, dental, mess hall are on the 7th floor, my office and meeting rooms are on the 3rd floor. Ranges are the basement levels. There was a purpose to that number, obviously. We weren't one hundred percent sure that you'd be able to learn your way around as fast as some. We don't know a lot about you, really, so it's a learning process on both sides. Besides," he glanced over at Clint, "you probably won't be here for much longer than five, six months."

The group that passed them had all the other recruits in it. Sitwell nodded at Clint, and Jones took one look at the books Clint was holding and started to smirk. Clint felt himself flushing, coming up with a few responses, but his thoughts were interrupted by Coulson kicking his ankle.

"They get their introduction to the range Friday. I can try to make sure that you're there if you want to watch. Just look at it this way, you can be called Agent now, Barton, and they're all still Miss or Mister."

Clint just shrugged, feeling awkward and slightly upset as he started walking. It wasn't his fault, much, that he didn't have the same background as the rest of the people here.

"It's your background that got us interested in you, Barton, not your level of education." Coulson was starting to sound annoyed. "If we wanted just a smart-ass sniper, we could have recruited from four different military branches in the US alone. Now stop thinking and get a move on, you've stuff to do."

Supply was on level six, and seemed to be better equipped than both the Army-Navy store and the K-Mart Clint had gone to, combined. He followed Coulson, glancing around at what was being offered, to the counter where a man was sitting there, playing with a deck of cards.

"Need a kit," Coulson spoke briskly. "Ops."

"Code?" The man didn't even look up as he reached out for a binder.

"Four-alpha-niner-seven-three-charlie-bravo-hotel-echo." Coulson rattled off. "Agent's name is Barton, Clinton Francis." Glancing at Clint, he said, "that's all written down in your guide, and on the back of your badge. Learn it, and don't forget it."

After leafing through the binder, the man finally looked up. "Alrighty then," the man said, standing up. "Barton, is it? Need to know sizes."

What followed was a very long hour while Clint was made to try on clothing, shoes, various security items, and even a suit. He was finally allowed to leave, loaded down with bags, and followed Coulson back to his room. He dumped it all on the bed, and glanced between the wardrobe and the bags.

"You'll have more than one room, and you've got multiples of everything." Coulson was sorting out the bags. "SHIELD has multiple facilities, and it's easiest to have one set of gear at the places you're at the most. Put a week's worth away, store the rest on top of the wardrobe and under the bed. You'll probably bounce between two or three different places. If stuff starts to not fit well, bring it back to supply and swap it out." He pulled out some clothes, handing them to Clint. "Basic security uniform, go put this on. Skip the armor for today, you won't be carrying a gun yet, wear a holster, you have thigh, belt, and shoulder, but you'll choose one depending on what else you're wearing. Most people use thigh holsters, unless they're in a suit. Easier to get to. Learn what everything looks like because this is what you'll be wearing for the foreseeable future. There are a few variations, but you'll learn them as you go."

As Clint took the clothes into the bathroom to get changed, he slumped against the wall, feeling shaky and shocked at how fast everything was going. He moved over to the sink, leaning against it and staring at himself in the mirror. "Get a grip, Barton," he mumbled. "You can do it. It's just like prison, but better. You wanted some security." He felt a slight prickling behind his eyes, and quickly splashed some cold water on his face, before taking a deep breath and changing into the uniform before heading back into the main room.

Coulson was sitting at the desk, glancing at his watch. "Need to get a move on. Do you think you can find your way to orientation on your own? I need to do some other stuff."

Numbly, Clint nodded. Orientation yesterday had been simple, and he'd been able to just sit and listen. Today would probably be more of the same. Hopefully be more of the same. He followed Coulson out, turning to lock the door, and took the elevator down, slipping into the meeting room. He was the last one to arrive, and he ducked his head as he quickly walked around to an empty chair.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Barton," Agent Smith said, dryly. She then saw what he was wearing and took a second look at his ID badge. "Correction, Agent Barton. Welcome." If she was surprised by the change in Clint's status after such a short period of time, she didn't show it. "Now, we were going over the basics of the different organizational levels here, and how they coordinate between sections."

"Wait a minute," Jones interrupted. "Does he even need to be here? Can't he just get whatever security briefings he needs and the rest of us can talk in a language that he won't understand?"

Clint felt his face go blank, then inspiration struck. This guy was acting like one kid in the orphanage, so long ago. "You know, Jones, if I'm in security, working with all the other security guards, here to keep you safe from outside sources, do you really want to piss me off?"

Agent Smith opened her mouth, then stopped at Clint's raised hand. "Besides, Mister Jones, I really don't see you making many friends right now." He glanced around the table. Sitwell looked like he was enjoying the show, and the rest looked like they didn't know who to look at or how to react.

Suddenly exhausted, Clint sat back in his chair. "Sorry, Agent Smith."

She nodded, then continued lecturing. It went much the same as yesterday, and Clint tried to remember it all. He hoped that all this was written down someplace. He'd ask Coulson later, and suspected that he'd pick it all up as he went along; it seemed like that was what normally happened anyways.

After they were released, Clint hung back as Agent Smith ushered everybody out, before wandering out and down the hall towards Coulson's office. Knocking on the door, he leaned his head against the doorjamb.

"Barton?" Coulson was standing there, holding a stack of files. "Sorry, didn't realize you were done. You're not needing to do anything else today, so you can head back down to the range, go to the gym, start studying, whatever."

"Shooting scientists." Clint said. "You said something about getting me in the range with the scientists when they go down there for their first time?"

"Yes," Coulson said, giving Clint a pointed glance. "What were you thinking."

"Can I do more than just be there?"

Coulson opened the door, motioning Clint inside. "I'll make a deal with you. Follow the schedule I gave you earlier, and I'll talk with Joe and Steve. Jones being a pain again?"

"He's an ass. Sitwell told him at lunch that he was acting like a high school bully. Isn't there a whole thing about that?"

"Ah." Coulson nodded. "Geeks, nerds, and jocks. Jones was probably a geek, and you present more as a jock, who would have had the power in high school because they were athletes, and weren't seen as 'smart,' having more brawn, strength, than brains. Jocks generally picked on the geeks and the nerds, who were the scientific and technical types, the ones who played table-top games, debated over if Star Trek or Star Wars was better, that sort of thing. But now, he's realized that he has the ability to give himself power over you, and make himself feel better about the problems he had when he was younger. We see that with a few recruits every time, and they usually turn around, leave, or don't get very far. But I think I see where you're going with this, and I'll see what I can do." He picked up his phone, waving Clint out. "But can't do that if you're taking up space in here."

Clint nodded, heading for the elevator and the range. Maybe he could use that compound bow some more, too.