"Do you think she'll make it?" I heard my mother Lynnette ask. The doctor glanced at the still figure of my annoying half-sister.

"That depends," he replied, "not if she stays in this... depressed state. She appears to have lost the will to live."

Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn't  be eavesdropping on my mom, but this is interesting news, my dear diary! Hanna is a total pain, so I wouldn't mind her disappearing out of my life forever. As a bonus, that'll make me the oldest! So then I'll inherit that dumb farm of my uncle's, and sell it for a fortune, and be richer than Tony Stark never was! (Get it — because he doesn't exist?) The downside would be that I'll also be the one doing the dishes if she's gone, but when I'm rich I'll hire someone to do it for me. Or no wait, I'll be so famous people will be begging to do the dishes for me. Yeah, Hanna's hopeless, and totally replaceable. I mean, she's not even really my sister! So I don't really care, except I do, because if she dies I GET TO BE RICH!

 Yours truly — tasha barton ♡

—

"You can't just let her die like that!" Douglas argued, his voice echoing slightly through the empty passage.

"She's lost the will to live, Douglas, there's nothing we can do," Lynnette defended herself emotionlessly, "besides, I don't remember inviting you over."

"She's my favourite niece, I'll invite myself over whenever I feel like it," he replied angrily, "Dawson would never allow this."

"Well he's not here," Lynnette stood firm.

Hanna sat up in bed when she recognised her uncle's voice.

"Uncle Douglas!" she exclaimed happily, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. 9 AM, too late to sneak out to the forest.

Her bedroom door opened, and her uncle strode in confidently, ignoring the glare he was receiving from Lynnette. He was holding a case under his arm that was big enough to contain a guitar, which he put on Hanna's bed in order to hug her.

Lynnette shook her head and walked away, leaving Hanna and Douglas alone. Hanna's uncle grinned.

"It seems your mother is not too pleased with my visit," he stated, and Hanna shook her head.

"Please don't call her my mother," she requested, "and anyway, sometimes I honestly wonder if cares about my survival."

Douglas pursed his lips. In any other child, he would've taken it as a joke, or at least not very serious. But Hanna was different. Ever since her father Dawson had died, leaving Hanna with her step-mother Lynnette and her half-sister Tasha, everything had gone downhill. Hanna was just over seventeen now, and her mother expected her to fend for herself. And the mysterious illness only made matters worse, because she was rendered unable to help out with the housework.

"Well," he continued, "if you won't live for her, do it for me."

Hanna managed a weak smile.

"It's not really something I can control," she admitted, "I don't feel that bad at all, I just pretend whenever I need to get away from chores. I don't feel sick all the time, but at some point it'll just hit me and then I'll die. For now, I sneak into the forest when I get the chance,—"

"The forest?" Douglas questioned curiously, "do you call those five trees in the park a forest?"

Hanna shrugged.

"The next best thing is an hour's drive from here, and seeing as how I don't really have a car, I'm not going there anytime soon. Besides, I'm dying anyway, so why bother getting attached to new things?"

Douglas bit his lip, because she sort of had a point.

"How long does the doctor think you have?"

"About a month, if I stay in this 'depressed state'," Hanna shrugged nonchalantly, as if he was asking when her next appointment at the dentist was, "and to be fair, I don't see much reason — besides you, of course — not to be depressed."

"Your problem is that you have no purpose..." Douglas muttered.

"That's one way to put it. But really, what impact can I make in a month anyway? So there's no point in starting something now."

The casualness in her voice had to be either crazy courage, or just lost hope.

"You could help others," her uncle suggested, "you know, maybe fight crime or something. You're pretty dangerous with your martial arts and stuff."

Hanna smiled.

"Yes, but that alone isn't going to help. By the time the police has recruited me I'll be dead."

"I wasn't thinking about the police."

Douglas gestured to the case, still lying at the foot of her bed.

"That's why I brought this."

He moved it towards Hanna, and her brows furrowed as she studied the rectangular case.

"What is it?"she asked, and her uncle smiled.

"It's yours," he explained, "just open it!"

Slowly, dramatically, Hanna opened the case. (Did I mention it was big enough to hold a guitar?)

And gasped.

"Is... Is that...?"

Her uncle nodded, and Hanna stretched out a hand to stroke the smooth black bow. It was a perfect blend of elegant and effective. A quiver lay neatly beside it in the case, filled with an arrangement of arrows.

"Your great-great-lots-of-greats-grandfather's bow," her uncle confirmed.

Hanna barely dared to whisper his name.

"You mean... Hawkeye?"

Douglas nodded, and Hanna stared once more at the bow.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she asked, "I won't even be able to pull the bowstring!"

Her uncle grinned.

"That'll come. Do you think Clint could, the first time he tried?"

Hanna shrugged. Maybe, but Clint Barton was a legend, and not something that she could be compared to.

"And then there was this..." Douglas reached out and moved the quiver aside, revealing a small pile of papers. Hanna studied the top one; it looked like an arrow design sketch. But her uncle took the very bottom page, and handed it to her.

It was a letter.

Dear Heir

If you are reading this, I have ended my career as an Avenger, because I am (hopefully!) living out my days with my family. You don't have to feel sorry for me — I made the choice willingly.

With this letter comes my bow, and the remaining arrows, as well as instructions on how to make new ones if needed.  Treat them with respect, and never use them with evil or selfish intentions. You will know what is right when the time comes.

I cannot emphasise the power of teamwork enough. If there is ever going to be a new team of Avengers, they will no doubt be as unruly as the first. They're going to need someone who can keep them working in the way they're most effective; as a unit.

By now you undoubtedly know that the key to never missing is never stop practising. You need to be sharp if you wish to be of aid to the world.

I believe that one day, there may be need for an archer that never misses. When that time comes, my rightful heir can take up my bow and use it to fight evil once more. Be prepared.

May your arrows fly true always.

— Clint Barton, A.K.A. Hawkeye