This is Sfär. Here, the Germanic nations are a superpower.

Ah, Ghana... There are locals here who STILL wave the Dutch flag...after all this time. But then, rumor has it that these days, the Dutch are hardly the Germanic Union's strongest nation...

This is Accra. It's not to be confused with Akron...which has MUCH prettier trees every autumn. There is no autumn here, of course; Ghana's in the tropics. This is where most of Ghana's Dutchfolk live. As a matter of fact, this is where most of GHANA lives.

Just outside of town, there's a gendarmerie fort. Long after the Dutch's departure, they're still making big busts.

One of them sits in a chair inside, in front of a police desk, cuffed to that chair. Meet Tilda Johnson. Normally, she's an herbalist. Today, she's a suspect in a local poisoning.

Her hair itches. She scratches it a lot. She hates it. If she were back at her herbarium, she could mix up a cure for that itching in no time. Alas, she shouldn't plan for that. This station is probably way too close to getting what they need to throw her in the cage for a long time...

Lucky for her, though, a cute Akan detective attends to her, and undoes her cuffs. He bears the likeness of Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje. Sadly, he looks much less freakish than Algrim/Kurse... Thankful for the release, Ms. Johnson stands, and prepares to leave...

"O, Ms. Johnson?"

Tilda freezes. Shit; they've booked her. She can feel it... Either that, or her witch's intuition is getting rusty...

"You need to get your hair styled...or otherwise cut. This might be Ghana, but most women I meet around here can do WAY better than that, when it comes to hairstyles."

Tilda sighs, and leaves. As much as she hates to admit it...the detective's right. Getting her hair cut WOULD make more sense than an herbal remedy for the itch...

Ray Stevens, she's going to hate this...

This is East Long Island. Here, the sea hits hard...as does the weather in general.

Here, there's a lone cottage. It's a fragment of Avengers HQ.

Here, glass bottles full of kerosene sit all alone, atop stumps. They look so vulnerable there, despite being full of kerosene...

From out of nowhere, a flaming arrow flies. It strikes the bottle, and blows the stump to kingdom come.

From afar, Clint Barton keeps flinging those strings. He flings those strings from cams. Those cams are on either end of a bow. He's got a quiver on his back...and that's from where he gets the arrows.

Out front, a motorcycle pulls up to the front of the cottage. The rider rolls to a stop, and kick-stands the bike. She removes her helmet...revealing Tilda's face...and very messy hair...without which she would surely rather mix herbs than ever be here.

She follows the signs to the barber chair. It's in a shed, just near the back garden. She steps inside, and takes a seat in the barber chair.

Arrowheads, for various purposes, hang on the wall. They're from trick arrows. Tilda would hate to think that they're used to cut hair...

A bell's button rests on the workbench. Tilda presses it.

Within Barton's ear, a buzzing sound vibrates. Barton acknowledges this, puts his archery equipment away, and goes inside to dress for the role. He does this by putting on his Ronin costume...katanas and all.

He makes Tilda feel nervous, of course, when he goes into that shed and attends to her leggy hair. She's worried he'll give her dreadlocks...when she'd make no such order.

He stands before her...and removes his hood. Next, he removes his black Ronin robe. In doing this, he reveals a white shirt that he wears underneath, that says, in bold letters, I HATE AFRICAN HERBALISTS.

At this, Tilda swallows hard. NOW she feels nervous, for sure...

Behind Clint, the shed seals itself shut. He crosses his near-bare arms, and looks down upon her.

"Well?" He asks. "What'll it be, beautiful?"

Tilda must stay calm. She's got nothing to feel bad about. She is what she is. She's just a simple herbalist. She grows her little herbs, and heals her little homefolk. Some of them are morally questionable, but... Nobody can be morally stubborn in the most absolute sense, right?

Unable to tell the truth, she improvises a lie. "I host dung fights...in Africa. I play referee. A lot of Akan kids like to throw elephant dung at one another...for fun. This sounds messy, but...elephant dung is actually much more humane than human feces. There's not much they can do to harm each other that way, but... The state requires me to stick around, just in case one of those kids becomes the evil revolutionary who nearly wipes out his whole damn generation."

With that, Clint smiles, and gets to work. He takes arrowhead after arrowhead off the wall, and spears each one with one of her hairs...

One delayed-action explosion later, and Tilda looks like an African pixie. Nonetheless, her misadventure with the Hawkeye turned out to be funner than she imagined. She just might consider asking him to take her up as a protégé...