A/N: Trigger warning for abuse and minor character death.

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Clint took a steady breath, his finger hovering over the trigger. With an exhale, he fired the rifle, the bullet speeding straight on course to the moving target that was barely able to be seen in the dimly lit range. Around him, the few soldiers there whistled, impressed by the young cadet. Colonel Jacques Duquesne was looking on with a smile, while the other officers were nodding with approval.

The shot had been his first, and Clint had yet to show them his skills with a bow and arrow. A man, not too much older than himself, stood nearby, having handed him the rifle. Again and again, he fired the moving targets right in the centre, only one ever hitting outside the heart. By the time he was out of bullets, he traded the gun for the bow.

It was stiffer than the one he used at cadets, but nonetheless, it was roughly the same weight. He was also handed a quiver full of arrows.

"These are pretty much new," the man said, plucking out an arrow. Clint saw the name 'Barnes' on the soldier's sleeve. "I've only seen a couple other soldiers use the bow before."

He thanked Barnes, feeling the bow in his hands. If he were to train at the base, he'd have to get used to it. Notching an arrow, he focused on the targets once again. Just as with the rifle, not a single target was missed. By the end of the session, the soldiers left, impressed, as did the officers. The colonel clapped Clint on the shoulder, almost proudly, telling him that he could return to train the next week.

Escorted out by Barnes, Clint glanced around the training facility, though not much was there to see. The walls were painted white, and there were a few potted plants at the corners of the hallways. Not until the entrance was there any natural light filtering in from a skylight.

"You're a good shot," Barnes said, walking him to the door.

"Thanks."

"How'd you become so good?"

Clint shrugged. "Practice, I guess."

"Well, keep on doing that, Barton." Barnes nodded a goodbye to him.

Clint saluted him and headed outside to the cool autumn breeze. He swung his pack to his chest and got out his phone. There was a message from Tony and one from Natasha. He opened Natasha's text first.

Let's hang out tonight, she'd texted.

He typed back immediately, letting her know he'd be over in half-an-hour. Then he read Tony's message, which said, Loki's out of S.Y.P.C. Bring your girlfriend to the meeting tomorrow.

Without replying to Tony, he hurried to the bus stop to catch the bus that would take him to Natasha's neighbourhood. Once on the bus, he took a seat at the back, plugging his ear buds into his phone and turned the volume all the way up. He was annoyed with the prank ideas that Tony had been suggesting all last meeting. They were childish and so predictable, even in his opinion. He couldn't even imagine how Bruce would react if they decided to put graffiti or something that you could be charged for.

Tony had bitched about getting the cow out of the school during his detention, which took around two hours. By the end of it, he had ended up smelling like cow and rubber, and his ears had echoed with the sound of pops. The cow had to be returned to the farm that Tony had rented it from, and the popped balloons had to be thrown away, one by one. Although Clint was glad that he hadn't had to go through that ordeal, he felt a bit guilty about Tony taking all the blame, especially since he was a big part of the pranks. Thor and he should've been in detention as well.

The bus screeched to a halt at the outskirts of Natasha's neighbourhood and Clint got off. He crossed the road quickly to avoid the barking dog, and walked quickly down the street with his hood up and head down. Above him, a streetlight flickered then went out. He was a couple houses down from Natasha when his shoe caught onto something.

Just then, he was roughly shoved from behind, and stumbled, only to catch his balance on a wire fence. Wincing at the sharp wire that had come out, he shook his bleeding hand. He felt a hand grip his shoulder tightly and tried to pull him to the ground. Clint stood steady, lunging backwards and attempting to plant a fist in the person's face. He then realized that his attacker wasn't alone.

Whirling around, he found himself face to face with six guys who were taller than himself. The tallest was standing before him, hood down, and pale face leering in the moonlight. The guy had short, rusty red hair, similar to Natasha's, with blue eyes boring down at Clint.

"Where do you think you're off to, kid?" the guy said, taking a step closer to Clint. "Haven't seen you around here before."

Clint glared at him, daring him to make a move as he fingered his pocketknife in his jeans. The guy glanced walked around him, studying him. He punched Clint on the back, right where his name was sewn on his archery jacket.

"C. Barton." The redhead was situated in front of him again. "Ah, yes. I've heard that name before. The C stands for Clint, doesn't it?"

"Why do you care?" Clint shot back with a sneer.

"So she hadn't mentioned me to you."

"Who?"

The guy shook his head, clucking his tongue. "It doesn't matter, Clint." He said the name like it was a disease. "I don't think you'll be able to speak to her after this anyways."

All six guys lunged toward him simultaneously, brandishing their fists. Clint pulled out his pocket knife and flicked it open, swinging it around. The blade shone in the light for a moment, until his wrist was grabbed tightly by one of the attackers. He nearly managed to get out of the grip, but was punched down by another guy. His pocketknife dropped and bounced off the sidewalk and into the sewage drain.

Clint could fight, but against six bigger guys, he knew fighting back would be useless. Already pinned to the ground, he braced himself for the beating he knew was going to ensue. The redhead kicked Clint once in the stomach, winding him. Then he felt a foot press against his ankle, harder and harder until he heard a crack. Seeing red, he shouted out in pain.

"That's just a taste of what's to follow," the guy hissed, punching Clint in the nose.

Pulling back his fist again, the redhead aimed for his gut. At that moment, a loud shout emanated from one of the houses.

"Stop that! Get away from him!" A female's voice grew louder as she approached the guys.

The guy shot up straight away, releasing Clint. The others followed his lead, albeit somewhat confused. Quickly running over to Clint, she knelt by his side. It was Natasha with a fierce look on her face. She turned to the guy who had punched Clint with a look of disgust on her face.

"What was that about, Alexei?" She rose up, her eyes burning with anger. Although she was nearly a foot shorter than the guys, Natasha seemed much taller at that moment, her fiery copper hair whipping about in the sudden gust of wind.

Taking a moment to hide his ashamed composure, the guy turned to Clint. "She's all yours, Barton," he said quietly before shuffling away, pulling his hood up.

Uncertain of what to do, the other guys milled about for a moment before departing at Natasha's glare. Clint had pushed himself up into a standing position, clutching his stomach. Blood was pouring out of his nose, which was slightly crooked and swollen.

"Shit," Natasha swore, dolling out a crumpled napkin from her sweater and handing it to him. She glanced up at the sky, and saw dark clouds begin to form, muting the moon's light. "We'd better get you inside."

Staggering into the house with Natasha holding him steady, Clint immediately collapsed onto a dining room chair. Holding the blood-soaked napkin to his nose, he began to feel light-headed. His stomach ached every time he took a breath, and he knew that it was likely bruised. Natasha gave him a cloth for his nose, indifferent to the bloody napkin that she held in her hand.

She helped him shrug off his blood-stained jacket. Slowly, she pulled off his shoes as well, the movement making him wince.

"My ankle's broken," he muttered. "I think my nose is too."

Lightly brushing his nose, she sighed. "It's broken. We'll take you to the hospital soon. But for now, just take something for the pain. I'll be right back."

She hurried up the stairs, and returned with a bottle of Tylenol. She also poured him a glass of water, and got out an ice pack from the freezer. Shaking out two pills, she handed them to him, which he swallowed with a gulp of the water. Slowly, Natasha led him up the stairs to her room.

"Why not the couch?" Clint asked, a smirk forming on his tired face.

"White leather," she explained. "My uncle doesn't want to get blood, sweat, or even skin cells on it. I don't know why he even has it. He could probably sell it for-" she trailed off. "Never mind."

Natasha helped him into the room, clearing the covers of her things. He gingerly lay on the made bed, adjusting himself so that he didn't make the bedspread too dirty. He knew he was covered in dirt. She made sure to put a pillow under his head so as to keep it elevated.

Closing the door behind her, Natasha sat at the edge of her bed, careful as to not move Clint too much. "We'll have to ice your ankle for a bit," she said. She lifted his pant leg up slightly, her fingers lightly skirting the area.

"That tickles," he said, beginning to chuckle, then seeing red again as his ankle throbbed.

Natasha rolled her eyes, placing the cloth-wrapped ice pack on his ankle, ignoring his gasp at the coldness. After a moment, there was silence, and she felt something brush against her fingers.

"Thanks." Clint's voice was muffled from his blocked nose. Blackness was beginning to form around his eyes and broken nose, but he didn't seem to notice. His hand rested over hers, squeezing it lightly.

"We should go to the hospital right away. I'll call my uncle to pick us up." Natasha made to leave, removing her hand from under his.

"Wait, Tasha." He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back down. "Seriously, just wait a minute. Who was that guy?"

She pursed her lips. "Alexei. I don't know what got into him. He's not the type to start a fight." With the swish of her hair, she left, swinging the door open. The doorknob hit her wall, and the picture hanging behind the door fell to the hardwood with a crash.

It was a photo of Alexei and Natasha with their arms around each other, taken just weeks before.

AAAAAAA

Bruce hurried down the stairs as he mom called for him. He nearly tripped on the last step, barely catching himself before ending up sprawled on the floor.

"Whoa there, honey." Mrs. Banner steadied him as he took the last step. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going out to the supermarket. I'll be back in less than an hour."

"Could we have that loose corn tonight?" Bruce asked, adjusting his glasses.

His mom smiled. "You eat that so often. You could be that jolly green giant on the can."

"Please, mom?"

She ruffled his already-messy hair. "Alright. I'll see you soon, Bruce. Do your homework."

"Already finished," Bruce called out as his mom left. He went back to his room, locking the door, knowing that his dad would be home soon. The last thing he wanted was any trouble to start. His father, drunk and fueled with anger, made it his priority to beat Bruce purple and blue. Bruce still had scars from when his dad had taken out scissors one time and lashed out.

Subconsciously reaching to his scarred back, he jerked out of the reverie. He lay on his bed to read for a while, until he noticed how thirsty he was. Quickly, he went down to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. He frowned as the bag emptied and made a mental note to call his mom to buy milk.

He heard the lock turn in the front door, and then heard it slam open. His father was home. Bruce knew there was nowhere to go, so he stood facing the sink, praying that his dad was in a good mood. The fridge door opened, then was slammed shut so hard, that Bruce heard a few bottles smash.

"Where the fucking hell is the goddamn milk?" his father roared.

Bruce winced, trying to make himself as least noticeable as possible. Unfortunately, he was noticed and slowly turned to face the furious man.

"Where's your mother?"

"She went to buy groceries," Bruce replied, trying to steady his voice. He was shaking, and his palms sweating.

"How long has she been out?"

"A- about forty minutes."

His father snarled, slamming his hand on the counter. "It's seven o'clock. She should be making dinner by now."

Despite his fear, Bruce spoke up. "She'll be back soon."

"Did I ask you to talk, boy?" his dad hissed, his voice dangerously low. When he received no answer, he hit the counter again. "I asked you a question!"

"N-no."

"You pathetic excuse for a son. You quiver in fear like the coward you are." His father inched closer, his alcohol-tainted breath assaulting Bruce's senses. "You're useless, you little girl. I didn't even want you, but your mother just had to keep you. She loved you too much to let you go. The love she gave to you was supposed to be for me!" The last few words were shouted, making Bruce reel back. "She's mine, you ungrateful bitch."

With a growl, his father swung his fist out, contacting his son's left jaw. Bruce felt pain immediately and instinctively held his arms up in defense. His father knocked them aside and swung the other arm to his throat. Bruce clutched his neck, coughing for breath. Bent over, he was struck on the back and fell lower to the ground.

Helpless, he couldn't do anything but close his eyes as his father kicked his body. He felt a few ribs crack, heard himself scream, as if it were someone else. As he heard another voice float through the house, he opened his eyes again and saw his mom.

"Brian!" his mom screamed, attempting to pull him off of her son.

His father spun around, grabbing a hold of a knife from the dishwasher. Bruce watched from the floor, shouting at his mom to get away. She bravely stood her ground. Before she could do anything, his father swung his arm out, an insane look in his eyes. The knife cut through his mom's chest, blood spurting everywhere. His mom collapsed to the ground, her eyes catching Bruce's before the light in them went out.

Bruce heard nothing. Not even his father panting in shock at what he'd done. Not at the sirens in the distance from police cars. He didn't feel the searing pain of his ribs every time he breathed. He only saw his mother lying before him in a pool of growing blood. He only thought of how he could have leapt in front of that knife to save her.

But it was too late.

AAAAAAA

Tony looked around the conference room –it was empty. It was Saturday afternoon, the day that S.Y.P.C. was supposed to meet up. None of the members were there, save for himself. Thor had at least called him to tell him that he couldn't make it, but the others just hadn't shown up. He had no idea where Bruce was, and Clint hadn't replied to his texts.

Now there he was, standing alone in his family's home. As usual, his parents were out somewhere, Pepper wasn't going to meet him for another couple hours, and even his butler, Jarvis, was missing. He pulled out his phone, checking for messages. For once, there was no one looking for him.

Determined to go on with the pranks, Tony decided to call up a couple of other classmates who would definitely join him.

AAAAAAA

"So, your buddies all ditched you?" Peter Parker asked for the third time, after receiving no answer the first two.

Tony sighed. "Yes, they did. But now I have you two."

The other boy picked at his nails. "I'm only here 'cause you said you got beer here, bub," James 'Logan' Howlett drawled.

Tossing him a bottle, Tony huffed. "You ladies all set to hear my brilliant plans?"

Peter shrugged, cracking open a Pepsi. Logan took a swig of his beer, swinging his feet onto the glass table. They were the only classmates that Tony could tolerate, aside from his friends. He thought that they'd be perfect, as Peter had his intelligence, and Logan had his wit. Those were the two traits that Tony liked most about himself, so he supposed the two were just his type.

What he didn't account for, was the rest of their personality. Peter was shy, naïve, and couldn't stay focused for a long time. Logan had a sense of humour, but it was dry, and he lacked interest in basically everything.

"I have a mental list of pranks we could do this year," Tony said, taking a seat at the head of the table. "I was thinking of doing that string thing all over the English hallway. Or load the gym with water-filled plastic cups."

Logan snorted. "Are you still in middle school? Eighth graders could think up those plans."

"The cups one sounds like it'll take forever," Peter put in, pushing up the bridge of his thick-framed glasses.

"Okay." Tony shuffled through his list. "We could put up a banner outside the school that says that it's for sale. And the football field could use a special drawing on it." At their unimpressed looks, he added, "Or you guys could think of something."

There was silence between the three as they thought to themselves. Once or twice, Peter would open his mouth as if to suggest a prank, but then close it again without saying anything. Logan had finished most of his beer and was rubbing his sideburns in seemingly deep thought. It wasn't for another ten minutes had Tony realized that he had fallen asleep.

He threw his hands up and left the room saying, "The elevator should take you guys straight to the exit. You go have fun with Mary-Gwen or whatever, Peter. Logan, go eat a steak or something –you look like you need the energy."

Behind him, he heard Peter mumble something about bad hosts. Then Logan awoke, and Tony heard a chair crash and a particularly loud string of curses.

"People these days," Tony muttered as he called Pepper to meet him earlier. He supposed that he'd take a break from the pranks for a while. Though he enjoyed pulling them, it wasn't as much fun if he did them alone. Nodding, he told himself that S.Y.P.C. was temporarily disbanded.