Thor Odinson was deeply troubled. It had been nigh a week since Director Fury had first alerted the Avengers to the Hawk's absence, and with no word on the man's location, the team was disheartened and quickly falling into a distressed discontent.

Tony Stark, Thor noticed, had immediately locked himself in his laboratory of science, rarely slumbering and gaining sustenance from coffee and whatever food Lady Potts delivered to him. He was often joined by the good Doctor Banner, the two of them pouring over information obtained from S.H.I.E.L.D. and their own search. Their results, presently, had been in vain. Besides verifying that A.I.M. had indeed captured their friend, little had been found.

While the two scientists were occupied with their study, Steve Rogers was struggling under the burden of finding their teammate. Thor often accompanied him in his physical searches for the archer, their attempts to find witnesses to the Hawk's capture unsuccessful, and their interrogations of A.I.M.'s warriors less than insightful.

The Captain of America was restless, his desperation to find Hawkeye was as visible to Thor as a Bilgesnipe trampling through an Asgardian dining room. It was difficult to miss the coiled muscles and determined set to their leader, not when Thor intimately knew the strain of leadership.

'Twas not the first time Thor experienced a missing friend. It had been early in his years as a warrior, at a time he courted war and feared not the consequences, when Fandral disappeared during an attack on Vanaheim. The search was long and hard, many a foe falling before they were able to free Fandral from the enemy's fortress, yet Thor could never forget his worry that his friend might be killed before they reached him. He had agonized for days over the feeling of helplessness that tormented him when it seemed they would not discover his whereabouts.

The relief of finding Fandral, scathed but alive, was forever burned in Thor's memory. It was a feeling Thor was certain his teammates would soon experience, but until that moment came, Thor vowed he would do what was necessary to keep his fellow teammates in high spirits. He would share the burden placed upon their young Captain and team, working earnestly toward the archer's safe return.

It was with that outlook that Thor currently sat gathered around a table with Steve and Bruce, awaiting the arrival of Stark. The Man of Iron had suddenly called for a meeting, his tone urgent and sharp. He had found something important, but what, Thor did not know. According to Doctor Banner, Barton's location still eluded them.

The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence, avoiding eye contact as they ruminated on why Stark assembled them, when Thor decided to ask, "Have you heard word yet of Lady Natasha? I think she would gladly join us in the search for her partner."

"I tried contacting her, but the mission Director Fury assigned her is apparently more complicated than expected," Steve said. "She'll be gone at least two more weeks."

"Two weeks?" Bruce said timidly. He rubbed at the corner of his eyes tiredly, dark circles standing out on his pale skin. "Does she even know Barton's missing?"

"Director Fury neglected to tell me that information," Steve answered unhappily. "S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are trained to put the mission first, it's hard to tell if she knows."

"But Agent Barton is her partner," Bruce said. "Surely Director Fury would make an exception."

Whatever reply Steve intended to offer was cut off as Stark entered the room, taking stand at the head of the table and surveying the assembled Avenger's.

"Good to see everyone's invitations weren't lost in the mail," Tony said. "Although the turn-out isn't as great as I'd hoped."

"Why did you call us here, Tony?" Steve asked "I thought you were searching for Hawkeye."

"I could say the same of you, Spangles," Tony replied, staring pointedly at his gym clothes. "How many punching bags did you break? Two? Three?"

"Tony, please tell us why you called this meeting," Bruce said wearily, hoping to avoid a fight.

"Because of this," Tony said, pressing a button that sent a dozen holographic images into view. "J.A.R.V.I.S. keeps track of all Avengers' battles, using satellites and local security cameras to record data. I've been going through footage and discovered an oversight on our part."

"Is that Barton?" Bruce asked, pushing his glasses up his nose and leaning closer.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw," Tony said. "Barton, it appears, has been slipping our gaze for longer than expected. These are videos from the last three months. You'll notice Barton falling off buildings, getting stabbed, getting punched repeatedly by enemies, and generally being a living crash dummy. If you think this is bad, you should see his medical records."

Thor watched the videos, his heart sinking as he watched his teammate fight unassisted. Had Barton truly returned from battle scarred as often as the videos suggested? Thor remembered the euphoria of battles well fought, he remembered reassuring Banner that his deeds as the Hulk were noble, and he even remembered discussing the aftermath with Stark and their Captain. But somehow Barton had eluded his attention.

"What's the point of showing us this, Tony?" Steve asked, interrupting Thor's thoughts. "Is it supposed to make us feel guilty?"

"You don't feel guilty?" Tony asked accusingly. "Because the last time I checked, Barton was missing because we forgot he existed. Do you even check to make sure everyone makes it back okay?"

"Don't put this all on me, Stark, you didn't realize he was missing either," Steve replied tersely. The tension between the two was palpable, the strain of their wayward teammate starting to weaken their growing friendship.

"True, but I'm not the captain. What was it you called me again? Selfish? The kind of guy who wouldn't 'lay on the wire'?" Tony said. "Narcissistic I may be, but I'm the one sifting through S.H.I.E.L.D. files and video footage trying to find Barton. What have you done besides bust open gym equipment?"

"You know damn well what I've done, Stark!" Steve said, pushing his chair aside to stand head to head with Tony. "Don't you dare suggest I haven't done anything to help find Barton."

"Enough!" Thor shouted thunderously, the air sparking with electricity. "It matters not who was at fault. We all have had a role in Barton's continued absence, but this endless quarreling does nothing to quicken his return. A.I.M. is to blame for Barton's loss, and it is only by uniting together and ceasing to argue over past events that we will find him."

"Thor's right," Bruce said quietly. "Agent Barton is relying on us. The more time we spend fighting with each other, the longer A.I.M. has him."

Steve stepped away from Tony, still fuming but willing to table the discussion for a more opportune time.

Tony smirked, the grin not reaching his eyes. "File away the videos, J.A.R.V.I.S.," he said. "Pull up footage from the day Barton disappeared, maybe we can spot something we missed."

"As you wish, Sir," J.A.R.V.I.S.'s cool voice replied. "But I should inform you that you have recently received an encrypted message on your private e-mail from what appears to be Advanced Idea Mechanics."

Stark grabbed for a Stark Pad, studiously working before an honest smile crossed his face. "Barton, you sly bastard. He sent us information on A.I.M. and opened a line of communication to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Does this mean you can track him?" Steve asked, his anger suddenly forgotten.

"It'll take some time," Tony said. "A.I.M. is probably trying to fix the leak as we speak, but I'm smarter than them. A few days, four maximum, and I'll know where Birdbrain is."

Clint hated drugs. He hated the foggy, misplaced feeling that clouded his mind when he woke up and couldn't remember immediately where he was. It didn't help that most of his experiences waking up from drugs included hospitals, restraints, or torture. Hell, one particularly disturbing mission had included all three at once.

As a result, when he woke up from whatever drugs A.I.M. had injected into his system, he fell back into one of his well-worn defense mechanisms…he froze. He didn't move, didn't make a sound, and to the outside world, he looked like he was still slumbering in a drug-induced sleep. And while they labored under the assumption that he was still unconscious, Clint analyzed his situation.

There was a pinched feeling in the crook of his right arm, probably from an I.V. of some kind, and the tugging sensation coming from that area suggested someone was futzing with the line. His mouth was vaguely salty, maybe from the IV? His captors didn't seem to be the kind of people to give him fluids for health, there had to be something in it. Sodium Thiopental was his best guess. Except A.I.M. had to know S.H.I.E.L.D. trained all agents to withstand the truth serum's effects.

It was a possibility. However, Clint sensed that there were more people in the room, so physically forcing answers out of him still wasn't off the table. His chances of escaping were, well…minimal at the moment. He felt woozy and nauseous, his head ached, his body ached, and it felt like he was securely restrained. But needles and medical supplies made good tools, and when he finally found the energy to manage it, he could attempt a second escape.

In the meantime, Clint needed to open his eyes and find out how much trouble he was facing. He started slow, eyelids cracked apart enough that he could force his brain into focusing. He watched shadows move across his field of vision, and when his mind felt sharp enough to track the flow of conversation, he feigned waking up.

He swung his head to the side and let out a groan, attempting to raise his head then letting it fall as he blinked heavily. Making a show of effort, he finally raised his head to squint and stare stupidly around the small, steel walled room. He saw two of the A.I.M. agents share a smirk, and he worked to hold back a smile. If they really thought he would show them a weakness, if they underestimated him a second time, then Clint knew they hadn't learned anything about him.

He let his tongue feel heavy as he purposefully slurred, "What d'you want from me?"

A lanky chestnut haired man opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by a fierce glare from his apparent superior, a sharp faced woman with grey-flecked raven hair that stood at attention near the door. Clint hadn't seen her before, in fact, he only recognized two of the eight people in the room. It was likely the Scientist Supreme had overhauled security after he escaped, and these less than chatty people were now entrusted with his imprisonment.

"Fine. If you ain't gonna tell me what you want, can you tell me why only some of you wear masks?" Clint asked. His voice adopted a dangerous tone, one he'd learned from Natasha, and added, "Don't get me wrong, I like that it helps me know who I'm gonna kill when I escape again."

Eventually escape, Clint thought to himself as he kept a carefully calculated part murderous, part pathetic expression on his face. Enough to keep his threat level low yet make the weakest of them squirm at his bluff. Clint watched the same chestnut haired man who wanted to answer him earlier turn to his neighbor and worriedly mutter, "[could or should, maybe?] …wearing masks?" The A.I.M. agent's neighbor scoffed, answered something along the lines of "they're for subordinates", except Clint cared less about the answer and more about the fact he had found the weakest link.

If the angry red tinge to their leader's cheeks and the watchful stare she kept on Chestnut's head was any indication, she too recognized he would be a liability. It wouldn't help Clint if she had him removed, so he tugged futilely on the five inches of freedom from his arm restraints, drawing her attention to him.

As if on cue, the door opened and in walked the Scientist Supreme flanked on either side by scientists dressed in pristine white lab coats. He exchanged quiet words with the woman in charge before facing Clint with sour expression on his face.

"Three weeks my agents… [frying? Lying?] … you to speak with no [success? Yeah, probably success]" the Scientist Supreme said. "You are [something?] than we [taught?]"

Clint shrugged, figuring whatever the man said, the action would cover it. But three weeks? Aw, crap, he'd lost more time than he'd thought wasting away in that dingy dungeon. To be honest he was kinda disappointed nobody had rescued him yet. Not that he needed the help, but between the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D., the brightest and smartest people he'd ever had the fortune of knowing, he would have thought they had the resources to find him almost immediately.

If they were even looking for him.

Focus, Clint, the archer chastised himself. Now was not the time for his insecurities to make an appearance, not when he should be focusing on the villain's monologue and finding out what drug they were injecting into him.

"-this will make you talk," Clint caught the Scientist Supreme say. The man pulled a small clear bottle out of his pocket and held it to the light, pausing dramatically before passing it to the scientist on his left.

"This ain't my first truth serum," Clint said, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

"No. I suppose it [isn't?]" the Scientist Supreme replied. "But this is [he said a chemical name, that much was certain, but it was nothing Clint recognized]. It's new…unique ability to bind to…so it lasts [fifteen? Fifty?] times longer. And the side effects are [quiet?] something."

The Scientist Supreme signaled to the scientist, and Clint watched as they drew the serum with a syringe from the small clear bottle. Nobody spoke as the scientist moved toward Clint, grasping the I.V. and injecting the substance into the port. Clint glared at the Scientist Supreme, not bothering to struggle even as the cold fluid entered his body, an odd and tingly feeling crossing his skin where it was pumped into his arm.

They were waiting, Clint guessed for the drug to take effect, and if the almost nervous looks on their faces were anything to go by, they weren't one hundred percent sure what would happen. That's okay, Clint decided, because he knew exactly what was going to happen. The second they tried to ask him anything, Clint was going to quit paying attention, avoid eye contact, and play a lovely game he liked to call "who's going to punch me first?"

The strange thing, though, was that Clint didn't feel like he was being drug. Whatever they gave him lacked the eye-crossing, mental numbing truth serum properties that were supposed to make people more open to spilling their guts. He felt almost normal. Well, as normal as he could be restrained to a chair and aching from head to toe because he'd had the crap beat out of him again…which actually wasn't that far off from his average Thursday.

He watched the Scientist Supreme hold a quiet conversation with his scientists, looking smugger than he had any right to be, and Clint wanted nothing more than to let him know his serum was dud. But he held back, and suddenly Clint had an inkling of exactly what the side effects were.

After Clint had lost his hearing, he started having migraines. Skull splitting, searing migraines that left him curled in a ball wherever was dark, cool, and out of sight. They were incapacitating, could barely let him think let alone work, and he was thrilled when after a couple of months, he stopped having them. The blinding pain wracking through his skull and sending sparks of agony to the rest of his body, all thanks to A.I.M.'s truth serum, rivaled the worst of those headaches.

His breath caught in his throat, eyes slamming shut as he attempted to ride out the pain coursing through his body. It was brutal. It could have been seconds, maybe minutes before he was finally able to open his eyes and focus a pained gaze on the Scientist Supreme staring down at him with a sadistic grin.

He was talking about the serum, explaining away the finer intricacies of its brilliant design and why Clint would now be begging them to let him spill his secrets. To be honest, Clint wasn't able to catch many of the details. But he got the gist of it. If he answered questions and said whatever was on his mind, he'd be okay. Try to keep quiet when he thought about something and his body would essentially zap itself with pain signals.

Clint had it under control. He had a great idea; a solid A+ plan that even Steve would approve.

Okay…it was a terrible idea.

But Clint figured the odds were good he wouldn't have to suffer through anymore side effects if he pulled it off. He sat back in the chair, rolled his shoulders, and gave the room his best "you-asked-for-it" grin.

"Have any of you seen the new Star Wars movie?" Clint asked. "Because I have, and I'd love to talk about it with someone. Then once I finish spoiling that movie, we can talk about my favorite twist endings. Like in 'The Sixth Sense' where it turns out Bruce Willis was a ghost the entire time. Or that one episode of Dog Cops where Sargent Whiskers discovers who really killed Colonel Buddy…"

Ruining every movie, book, and television show he could think of for the A.I.M. agents maybe wasn't his best idea, but it certainly got results. As long as Clint talked about whatever movie or trivia popped into his head, he didn't have to hold back and suffer through another shock. Plus, seeing them steadily grow angrier as he said spoiler after spoiler was rather cathartic.

Up until the point they drugged him a second time, screamed questions at him, and when he failed to answer, started walloping him. Clint could barely see out of his right eye, body protesting from the slightest shift in position, and his muscles felt like lead. His throat was dry and scratchy from talking for so long, but they gave him some water so his words were audible. It was the gesture that mattered, Clint supposed.

He was alone currently, for the most part at least. A camera and microphone were angled toward him where they sat on the opposite side of the room, and while they underestimated him in some ways, they weren't taking any chances of him saying anything when they weren't there. Clint, for his part, was steadily working his way through the most annoying and catchiest songs he could remember. He didn't envy the person who had to listen to him. He doubted he sang on-key, especially considering he couldn't hear himself.

He was halfway through belting out "Eye of the Tiger" when she stormed through the door with the grace and stealth of a lioness. Clint couldn't help a relieved smile from crossing his face, breaking his song off to mutter, "It's about damn time."

"Why do you always end up in these situations, Barton?" Natasha asked, her voice exasperated and amused in a way that Clint recognized as pure Nat. "It's like you try to get caught."

"It doesn't matter," Clint said, his face suddenly falling. His eyes shifted away from her, body stiffening.

"It matters that you endangered your team by forcing them to rescue you," Natasha said harshly. "It matters that you were unaware of your surroundings, that you were sloppy, and that you got captured."

Clint shrugged, grimacing subtly before mumbling, "Not really. You're not real."

"Is that so?" Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. "And what gives you that brilliant idea?"

I can hear you, Clint signed. He grinned half-heartedly and added, "Made it kinda obvious."

"For that, you almost deserve to be an Avenger," she replied scathingly.

And yeah, it was a hallucination, but it still hurt a little. Clint didn't say anything, let drug's burn distract him and send bright dots before his closed eyes. He started singing again when he caught his breath, and by the time he reopened his eyes, Tasha was gone.

Unfortunately, now that the hallucinations had started, they didn't stop. They popped up whenever was most inconvenient: during interrogations, when he was seconds away from sleep, or when he was at the best part of a song. And it wasn't just Natasha. He hallucinated the Avengers, his brother Barney, Trickshot, and the Swordsman. Hell, the worst was when Harold Barton made an appearance, drunk as always, to tell him he was a failure and that he deserved to have his ass kicked.

To be fair, it was a common theme whenever the hallucinations popped up. Being unworthy, causing people to die, his general stupidity. After a while they started to blur together, but Clint found that the longer he was there, the less he cared about what they accused him of doing.

Between the hallucinations, the torture…because of course they hadn't stopped…, and the shocks of pain when he lost focus, Clint felt like crap. His lack of sleep wasn't an unknown feeling, but it wasn't pleasant either, certainly not when it was going on three, maybe four days. And as much as he enjoyed talking, the constant chatter was mentally exhausting.

Clint was in the middle of reciting the plot of every Harry Potter book to a pair of unamused A.I.M. agents, ignoring Barney's glare, when he felt the ground rumble abnormally. It could have been an expected occurrence, but Clint didn't think so from the way his captors tensed, shiftily surveying the room and readying their guns. One of them ran outside while the other agent, the one Clint recognized as the same chestnut haired man from his drugging ceremony, nervously paced the room and checked his communication line.

Clint watched with sharp eyes, sensing the agent's agitation, and he looked for an opportunity. There were no weapons in the room, the needle was gone from his arm, and he doubted anymore pens would be allowed near him. The agent was headed toward him with a blindfold, something they hadn't done before, and while he pulled it over Clint's head, Clint reached his right hand sneakily into the man's pocket with his limited range and pulled out a handful of objects, hoping there was something useful.

He hid them in the palm of his hand, fingers clenched tight against the unwelcome thrill of fire racing down his spine yet again, and waited for the vibration of footsteps to disappear. The reverberating slam of a door signaled he was alone and could check his findings.

It was mostly coins. Useful since he knew how to shoot them as weapons, but not as useful as the paperclip was going to be…and really? They still carried around paperclips? Clint supposed he shouldn't complain since it worked in his favor. There were perks to being an ex-carnie; pick-pocketing and lock-picking were two of them.

He straightened the paperclip as best as he could then felt for the lock. It wasn't easy doing it one handed and blindfolded, but Clint almost had the lock open. One more twist and…

There were heavy vibrations coming through the floor at a fast pace, and as much as he hated it, Clint stopped. He tucked the paperclip into his palm, closing his fingers around the thin wire just in time for the door to bang open with enough force to make the walls rattle. He tensed as multiple footsteps made their way inside, the hair on Clint's neck standing up as he swiveled his head to try and track their location.

Whatever they were planning, Clint was ready.