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Chapter 3

The three weeks, since Clint Barton left the hovel of the Avengers Tower, were not without incidents of any kind. He found himself, in one fell swoop, homeless and penniless. And yet, somehow, he had to find a way to take down a deep seeded underground terrorist organization, of which his own brother was somehow a part of. Appearing like a broken down bum became less difficult when he truly had little to his name beside the clothes on his back, a small duffel pack, and his dog. He felt like the epitome of a country song. In the short time, between his impaling Tony Stark with arrows, and his apartment being invaded by twenty men armed with guns, pipes, and sweaty maroon jogging suits, Clint had made himself a few new enemies. Some friends, but mostly enemies.

Having left with little cash, he found the cheapest, sketchiest apartment in Newark to bed down in for a few days. A few public intoxications later, he made his way to D.C. to follow up on a lead for Blackstone, then returned to Camden to crash a bachelor party and vomit in a punch bowl. After Camden, came Harrisburg Virginia, where he found two shady Level 6 agents he had no trouble identifying as Blackstone sleeper cursory ID checks complete, Clint spent four days in Trenton following a Level 7 agent that didn't pan out. It also gave him a chance to be on international television for sleeping under a park bench and growing a beard. What made news these days, he just couldn't comprehend. After Trenton, he felt he had enough information on a New York based Level 7 agent to stay in-state for a while. He drank in Central Park, skipped out on a few cab fares, and fell asleep under a horse. Talk sufficiently elicited the fact that Clint Barton was a street bum, a no good sewer rat, and New Jersey even dubbed him an unwelcome "shoobie", which, apparently, was the most heinous of his titles. A woman on Jerry Springer called him out for fathering her baby, and he made nightly news with both John Stewart and Colbert – and not for good reasons.

Staying in New York meant seedy apartment shopping. He found just such a base of operation not far from Steve Roger's place on 86th Street. Unfortunately, when he arrived to check the place out, he walked in on an underground casino operated by none other than the Tracksuit Draculas themselves. Barton left an anonymous tip with the NYPD about the proceedings, and after head boss-man got pinched, one of the brighter thugs identified Clint's face, though not his identity, as the culprit. Since that day (and since Clint may have walked away with four plastic bags full of cold hard cash) the guys had been on his case.

In this instance, "on his case" referred to the occasional busting down his door for another round of 'beat-on-the-Hawk'.

Tracksuit Draculas sounded clever at the time he came up with it, and the name had since stuck like a piece of tossed out chewing gum on an August baked pavement. What they lacked in overall vocabulary ("Bro," encompassed their adjectives, verbs, subjects, and occasionally all prepositions as well) and fashion sense, they occasionally made up in brute force. Initially overwhelmed at their numbers flooding through his apartment door, Clint hit the floor beneath their weight.

Peter Parker clung to the ceiling above him wondering what in the world he should do. He knew a stipulation in Clint's repertoire was total secrecy so he doubted jumping into the middle of a full out brawl counted as under cover.

One man at Clint's head went flying into the wall as Hawkeye extracted himself from beneath the pig pile.

"Lights!" He shouted upward.

Spider-Man hit the switch.

Between the flashes of gun powder, the swings of the aluminum bats, and the crash of random furniture, Clint's small room became an all-out war zone. Arrows thwapped across the space. Spider-Man muscled the window open, and soon, the tracksuits were thrown through the opening, one or two at a time. Other members of the apartment complex pressed their ears to their doorways to eavesdrop on the ruckus, but none dared to enter the hall. No doubt they'd become used to the occasional assaults on their private neighbor's place. It took a considerable time, but at long last, Spider-Man and Hawkeye were alone again with a street full of bruised and bloody tracksuits below.

Clint grabbed a bat left behind during the brawl, and slung it out the window as he pulled the sill down and clasped it into place. He turned around to look at Peter, who'd shut the door and flipped the lights back on.

"Um . . . That was interesting." Peter said, pulling off his mask. He dabbed a finger to a bleeding cut beneath his eye.

"Welcome to my world." Hawkeye replied. He pulled up the edge of his shirt to inspect a new hole by his hip.

"Did you get shot?!" Peter exclaimed.

"Lucky shot. It's fine, it went through." Clint replied unconcerned.

"It's not fine, you need a hospital!"

"Arrow?" Clint called, continuing to ignore Peter's worry.

"Would you sit down or something! Should I get a doctor?"

The bedroom door opened and the wolf trotted out.

"No need, I'm fine, really." Clint replied.

Arrow inspected the new shafts of arrows stuck in the walls and ceiling. The television had hit the floor in the scuffle, leaving the screen cracked. Clint seemed more upset about that loss than getting shot in his side. After making his inspection of the arrows, bloody floor, and remnants of Chinese food thrown about the place, the wolf went over to his owner. Clint stroked his nose.

"Mr. Hawkeye?"

The former Avenger looked up to Peter.

Suddenly the man who fought in the dark beside him, who seemed so calm and collected, geeky and young, became very timid. He held his arm across his chest as he took in the depth of the wreckage. The trickling feeling that what Barton brought him in for was very much out of Peter's league came back in spades. His Spidey sense tingled into overdrive.

"What am I doing here?" Peter asked. He opened his hand to indicate the wreckage. "This is just . . . I don't know what I'm even doing. What's really going on here?"

Clint looked down at Arrow. Arrow sat and looked back.

"Do you still want to help me?" Barton asked.

Slowly, more uncertain than before, Peter nodded.

Clint headed across the room, stiffer than he had been before a baseball bat connected with the side of his chest. He braced his hand against the wall and leaned down to pick up the book he'd brought out of the bedroom. He extended his arm toward Peter, offering the book to him.

Peter considered the worn edges and the duck-taped spine. Not knowing what he was getting himself into, he accepted the book and peeled open the thick pages. As his eyes perused the information held within, Clint angled the fold out chair beneath him. He also locked the front door before returning to his own beaten leather chair. A dishrag, that seemed clean enough, served to stifle the blood flowing from his newest hole. He tried to pass off the fact that it felt like someone rammed a red hot poker through his iliac crest.

Peter was grateful for the chair after his feet fell out from under him. He continued to flip pages on the hand-made note book as his brain throbbed through his skull. Everything in his world suddenly began to slow to a screeching halt as he read the manuscript. This couldn't be real. This wasn't true. When Peter looked up at last from his study of the journal, Clint's bleeding had stopped. Hours passed.

Arrow circled the room, chomping down on the arrow shafts to pull them from the floor and walls before dropping them in a pile by the door. Finished with his task, he went back to Clint's feet and flopped down. Clint set the foldout TV stand beside Peter at some point. Now he placed a tall glass of ice water on it.

"Is this true?" Peter asked.

"All of it." Clint said.

Peter reached for the glass, grateful for the offering.

"SHIELD? HYDRA? Is this what you've been working on? All this time? Is this why you left?"

"That's why I left." Clint admitted.

The high school hero closed the book in his hand and set it on the TV tray. His eyes did the asking for Barton not to disappoint. So, Clint launched into his tale in more detail, skipping the more intense notes to protect Peter's involvement.

"We decided as a team, after some difficult choices and long missions, that one of us needed to look into SHIELD. I'm the natural choice for that mission since I've been with the organization longest. It didn't take long for me to find the link that you just read."

"HYDRA?"

Clint nodded. "SHIELD's been infected for a while. It's extensive. At first, all we knew about was Blackstone. Apparently, that is a single faction, a research and development core, of the greater HYDRA network. And this . . ." he indicated the book "Is a very small part of what I have uncovered. No one in SHIELD can be trusted, not until I clear them personally. Do you understand, now, why I asked if you were tailed?"

Peter agreed.

"Everyone that may be associated with heroes, anyone I could reach out to in the tri-state area, including you, the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and even those little gifted kids institute are being watched by SHIELD. They call it surveillance. I call it research. The Blackstone Initiative; they've assessed all potential, current, and future opposition to their control, and have spent their time amassing ways to neutralize that risk. Or at least, that's my assumption. I haven't proved it yet. Low level agents, like those in that folder you have, are going to lead me to my proof."

Peter kept the notebook closed in his hands. He looked almost helplessly at Clint. "But how can I help? I'm happy you have the kind of faith in me to share all this, but I'm a little ashamed to admit this is out of my league. I'm not an Avenger. I don't do secret agencies, international intrigue, or all that stuff. I mean, I have a biology test in the morning I haven't even studied for, and I promised to bring home milk for my Aunt."

"I know that." Clint pulled the dishrag from his side. It was saturated through already, but he didn't feel like getting up to retrieve a different one. He folded the rag again, and wedged it into his waist band. He saw Peter's eyes on him, but the hero failed to comment again on Clint's condition. He knew the same lack of alarm would silence him. The archer sighed as he sank against the leather, Arrow pressed against his feet.

"I don't want you involved. I'll land them myself, trust me. If I need more help, I will call in for bigger back up. I need someone to keep their distance, stay under the radar, and take some pictures of those agents I've shown you."

"That's it?"

Clint nodded.

Peter considered the role. He knew there were certain things he couldn't do, and to make Clint understand that, he had to lay down some terms. Placing the water to the side, he slowly got to his feet.

"I can't leave the city." Peter said first.

"I understand."

"I still have my own work to do, but I can look into this on the side."

"OK."

"I'll need some info on the people I'm supposed to tail. Can I take this?" he held up the booklet Clint gave him to flip through.

The ex-Avenger placed a hand on Arrow, and motioned to him. In response to the private request, the wolf clambered to his feet and trotted into the next room. A few moments later, he returned with a small plastic parcel and passed it over to Spider-Man.

"I don't want anyone catching you with that book. It could prove very bad. Those are disposable copies. If you get into a jamb, eat them."

Peter looked less than enthused at that potential prospect.

"It won't taste like chocolate, I can promise you that."

Peter smirked a little. He returned the book to Clint and tucked the pictures into his shirt. "I guess this is us working together, huh?"

"Temporarily."

"Can I be an Avenger?"

"You have to ask Steve about that."

Peter grinned, pulled his mask over his face, and, as quickly as he'd come, he left again.

With the room left in peace at last, and the random assault of Tracksuit Draculas beaten into submission for now, Clint's shoulders hunched. He extended his feet out in front of him as he wiped his hand along his pant leg to remove the dried blood. Peter was right. He should get to a doctor. That may end up on the local news, though. So, to protect himself, he'd have to use a pseudonym. Clint's eyes fell onto Arrow. Arrow stared back, unblinking. Beside the packet for Peter, he had apparently decided to bring Clint his wallet, leash, and holo projector. According to Arrow, Clint was leaving the apartment and the wolf was going with him.

"All right, you win. Pick yourself an alter ego. You get to hang out with the Smith kids till I get back."

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