Clint Barton would not sit around and do nothing. Clint Barton could not sit around and do nothing. He took the letter to a friend of his. Mark Terry, a professional in tracking people down with the smallest of clues. He lived in South London, in a basement underneath a pizza restaurant his sister owned. Clint parked across the road from Terry's Tasty Pizza Place. He picked up the folder that contained the letter. He was wearing jeans and a shirt. He needed to appear casual and un-business like as possible to get a chance to talk to Mark. You see, the government could do well with a person like Mark.
Clint walked in and was instantly swamped with the smell of deep fried meat and cigarette smoke. He walked past a group of teens huddled in the corner smoking. He walked past an elder lady swearing lightly at the Sudoku. He walked past a couple sharing a pizza. Something inside of him panged with a dull throbbing pain as he cast a sideways glance at the couple. Jealousy? Longing? He wasn't sure. He assured himself it was just nerves. Because he was very nervous. His favourite person's life was on the line here, if he didn't move quick enough or if he stuffed up or if something went wrong or if he was too late… If he was too late…
Clint swallowed hard.
He walked up to the counter and Mary Terry, with her black hair tied up in a bun and her deep eyes someplace else, prepared to take his order.
"Can I help you?" she said politely, still gazing at something in the distance.
"Hi Mary," Clint said, face dead straight, in an attempt at expressionless. This seemed to snap Mary back to attention. She frowned as she studied Clint's face for half a second. Then;
"CLINT! Oh, sorry," She picked up the notepad she had just dropped and hurried from behind the counter to greet Clint. She wrapped him in a big hug.
"Yes, hello Mary. Is er, Mark? Is he here?" Clint tried not to be short with her but nerves made him blunt and rude. Mary, an ancient companion of his from before his glory days as an assassin, understood. She wasn't quick to judge and was really quite easy around people.
"Oh, look Clint. If you're here on business-" she had both hands on Clint's shoulders, being a few years older than him she was comfortable in an older sister relationship with him.
"No, it's not… business. It's er, you know. Something else," He gently removed her arms and followed her to the kitchen doors. She pulled on the handle for a second before Clint pushed on the door.
"Oh, aha. Oh, Clint. I've been so ditsy lately," she proceeded to tell him about her sleepless nights and unfocused attitude lately. While she entered the code for the basement door, she told him how she needed someone to run the diner for a week so, so she could get away. While she scanned her left eye and thumbprint, she mentioned how she'd love to go to Australia a meet her uncle again, who isn't doing too well in the mining industry. As she turned a big hefty gear left twice, right once and then left again, she said she was waiting for a miracle. She didn't say that she hoped he could help. She didn't say that she wanted Clint to stay here, with her, for just a while. She didn't say that but it didn't make a difference because Clint was only just listening.
"Yea, I er, hope you're doing alright, ok? I'd like to… help and stuff. But, got stuff to do. Thanks Mary, really, thank you," He nodded at her and stroked her chin before climbing down the ladder that led to an extraordinary office type laboratory. It was dark in there and he had to get a torch out of his pocket to see ahead of him. (Being a trained spy/assassin, he carried all sorts of interesting and useful stuff in his pockets.)