I hated S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.

It was like a lion's den, and every one of the pupils was carnal and carnivorous. Like animals, they could smell fear, and blood - like a predatory sixth sense - and I was rife with both: bludgeoned to a bloody pulp post-combat training daily, and sweating like a cornered nun after competing with them in athletics. They were keen minded and savvy in the ring; and I'd always end up pinned and defeated.

I was more out of my depth than a fish in the shark tank. And I floundered, and failed, and flunked in every class.

What were they expecting? If they'd conducted surveillance on me and excavated my past, they would've known I dropped out of highschool.

I'm not an academic. Never was. Maths made me narcoleptic, the sciences sent me to sleep, and even English was too formulaic for me. Track and field, that's where I came into my element; if there was a javelin to hurl, a discus to toss or a shotput to chuck, I would be top of the league table. And with my family life, I had a flair for running, it was in my arsenal of survival skills.

But still, they made me look like a rookie in the gym. I could barely bench-press eighty kilos, most students could do double. One handed.

Gymnastics, I could blag my way through: I used to hang with the acrobats at the circus - pun intended, I mean, these guys literally used to dangle from the trapeze in the big-top when they were chilling - and they'd get me to try and replicate their tricks on humid summer nights around the campfire for their amusement whilst the minstrels plucked their crude instruments. And some stunts I could pull off!

God, I miss those nights. Back then, my quality of life didn't depend on unorthodox sports. The autonomy of youth should be exploited before you become shackled to responsibility; but my childhood was governed by the autocracy of my father, I never tasted carelessness, and I only sipped at a smidgen of freedom.

The mats were where I was weakest. I'm not built like Captain America; I'm weedy, and too skinny for my own good; my mother used to prod me in the chest and rib that she could play the xylophone on my jutting ribs. Morbid, in retrospect; we were all malnourished besides my lumbering lump of a father. The killing joke - and starvation did nearly kill us - being we had to sell our farm foodstuffs to afford to live; so often we were left with scrap cuttings from the butcher's; rotten, flaccid, a higher fat and bone content than actual meat.

"Tap out!" I yelped, throwing my back, wiggling and writhing under Bobbi. "Tap out!" My drool and sweat was smearing like a Jackson Pollock on the laminate surface of the mat, a viscous trail of excretions, gloopy, wet. I felt childlike, dribbling the ultimate humiliation and signal of childish inferiority.

"Stop tapping out!" She hissed in my ear, her knee jabbing into the small of my back - the blow winded more air out of my gasping lungs - and my arm contorted immobilisingly: I could feel the joint of my elbow knotting and rolling, and the muscle fibres, stretching apart. "Roll over and you can take me! I'm going easy on you!" She punctuated her point with another stab of the knee, I spluttered and more flecks of spittle sprayed.

My face smooshed against the mat, I made an incoherent gurgling noise as I twisted, and grunted as her knee only buried deeper into my spine. I was sure she was going to dislodge a spinal disk at any moment, the curvature abnormal - seriously, how did those contortionists in their harlequin leotards tangle themselves up? Sweat filled the crevice-like creases of my furrowed forehead, and dribbled from my sopping wet strands. I winced as the salty concoction stung my eyeballs.

"Where's Maria?" I complained, breathless from the exertion of the martial arts. Bobbi was crushing my ribcage with her ruthless onslaught.

"Madripoor," was the monosyllabic answer. Unsympathetic.

"Where's 'at?" I sputtered like an old car exhaust, voice strained and struggled, oxygen was being wrung out of me, and I went limp.

"So far away that she can't help your sorry ass. Now fight back, Barton!" She heckled, my hackles high.

I gave one final wriggle, flapping my legs before flopping back to the mat. "I give up. You win. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Relenting, she dismounted me and released my arm, her ruthless resolve fraying. Bobbi wasn't cruel by nature, beating me up or not.

"No that's not..." She breathed, folding her legs under her and resting on her heels. "I just want you to have some self-confidence, Barton..." Motherly concern was written across her face, too eerie an echo of the only person who ever cared for me. Her voice had all the tender tones of a harp, and her artful words strummed my heartstrings with mercy.

~

"Sentiment is the biggest distraction in the field," the dreary professor spouted the doctrine with apathy, an apathy that I found antipathetic. Hairs sweeping in a silvery swathe on his sweat-sheened head, I supposed age had eroded his enthusiasm, and whittled his vocal range down to only one tone; inflection a thing of the past. "Friends, foes, they're all equally dangerous to your mission... I'd even postulate that your friend is the biggest liability."

The room toasty and his monotone words enveloping me like a blanket, I had to fidget to stay awake. And eventually, even twanging a ruler got boring, and I was elbowed by Hartley hard enough to bruise, so I stopped.

"Your friend falls..? First rule, don't be a hero: you have a job to complete, and it's not up to you to make calls on what's morally right or wrong-" I glanced at Phil Coulson who was sympathetically smiling at Doctor Pym, his head cocked attentively. God knows how he could look so inspired. "-because at the end of the day, you're expendable. We all are. Facts and figures in files..." His jaw ticked. "Don't go trying to pull of stunts and save the day. This isn't like one of those espionage movies all you kids are watching these days; it won't pay off... This isn't fiction. This is reality." He angrily pounded a fist on the desk and I snapped bolt upright, like a soldier caught dozing during role call.

He paced, the steam he'd pent up diffusing with the mindless wandering.

Outburst or not, Doctor Pym's lectures still weren't interesting. And I was struck with an idea. I dipped my hand into my pencil case-

"I'm not saying don't make friends. Companionship is what keeps us sane; humans are social creatures. But don't get too attached in this line of work. People can be there... Then be gone... All in the blink of an eye: which is why my daughter isn't going to be entering the business any day soon. And furthermore, that's why all relationships with your coworkers are strictly prohibited, nothing good can come of hormonal teenage flings-"

-And withdrew three chewed and stubby pencils, with blunted tips and splintered points. Arranging them into a V, with another pencil bisecting it-

"-and I don't expect any complaints. You all knew what you were signing up to... Or if you didn't, now you do. If you don't like it, now is your chance to leave. But enemies! Enemies..! Where was I?"

-and started winding some gnarly and aged sellotape around the pencils; the plastic film bunching up in the angles between pencils-

"An even more wicked vice is to fraternise with the enemy, which I don't expect any of you are stupid enough to do-"

-and the contraption held. Stringing the elastic band between the points of my pencils, I had constructed a make-shift catapult. I feld a piece of paper around the band, and shut one eye, aiming surreptitiously at the blonde two rows in front-

"But believe me, it happens. The end result? Well... Let's just say nothing good has ever come of it. Given S.H.I.E.L.D. Is a military organisation, desertion or treason against the organisation is something you can be court marshalled for. And I don't fancy seeing any of your youthful faces in the stand any time soon. Contesting on your behalf makes me look bad."

-And loosed the creaking elastic band, sending the scrap of white slicing through the air, dodging the people in front and bouncing off her head. She hardly stirred, but brushed the paper out of her hair with the comb of her fingers.

"We are at war, people; that is the nature of the current political environment, a transatlantic war. We can't have any of you canoodling and cosying up to communists. They're ruthless, the lot of them. Their women are extraordinary, don't be mistaken, but don't be fooled by a pretty face. To quote Shakespeare-"

Vying for her attention, I loaded up my catapult and flicked another shred of balled up paper at her. The band made a loud snapping sound, and that time she looked around. She smirked, then scowled, her eyes locking on me.

"-Look like th' innocent rose, but be the serpent under't... And those roses have thorns; don't be fooled by red velvety lips and cheeks rouged like petals. It's been proven in this day and age that women are as quite capable as men in the field. Take our very own Commander Carter for example! Don't make the same mistakes our troops used to make in World War Two."

Intent on getting her attention, I drew back the elastic band further and pinged three successive shots of a higher velocity at her. She swivelled in her seat and mouthed 'fuck off' at me, her attention for some reason directed towards the boring old man at the front of the high-roofed hall.

"I'm looking at you gentlemen. And ladies too, in fact - we live in a modern world after all. But I have confidence - for the most part - that no such crimes shall occur amongst this generation's most elite. Especially after this lecture. I pride myself on educating those who will inherit this Earth. Intelligent, polite-"

Still ignoring me, I resorted to my last resort. I loaded my string with a triple wedge of paper, and as I unleashed it, it split like a napalm and rained down the irritation on Bobbi.

"Mature-"

"Do you mind?!" Bobbi hollered, her voice like a gunshot in the echoey auditorium, her voice ricocheting off the walls and silencing everyone. She stood from her seat. "If you want something, Barton, ask me later-"

Professor Pym removed his glasses and stood tapping his foot on the raised platform from where he delivered his lecture, impatience etched onto his ageing features. "Am I boring you, kids?" One of his bushy white eyebrows rose and his eyes darted from Bobbi, to me.

My face flushed, and my cheeks burned with colour from my neck to the tips of my ears. I could hear Rumlow and his S.T.R.I.K.E. Squad goons snorting down the row. "No sir, sorry sir."

"That's professor to you. Barton, is it? Clint?" He called up to me, squinting into the eaves of the slanting room where I took vantage.

"Yes, professor."

"Don't force me to address you again, mister Barton. If I may continue, Barbara... I expected better of you, of all people..."

"Yes, professor. Sorry, professor," she said curtly, bowing her head and sitting back down.

~

Shouting at me or not, Bobbi was great. God, I need to find a better adjective. She was more than great. Better?

In the shooting range, her spiralling strands, like woven gold, were scooped into a messy bun. Even with those unflattering goggles and bulbous ear defenders on, she looked stunning.

Every bullet that shot out the muzzle of the high calibre pistol punctured the moving target lethally - or would be lethally, were it not a paper silhouette - shredding the paper and singing it black in the head, heart and abdomen. I paled in insignificance, and paled physically.

As the slide spasmed, and the ejection port spat shells out, she remained unblinking, and her stance, strong. No flash of light from the nozzle, or sudden sound could pierce her bubble of focus.

She made it look easy.

Catching her eye, I slotted the transparent goggles - scratched and scraped in places - over my eyes with a flick of the wrist, and equipped myself with the sound-guards over my ears.

Without ascertaining the safety-latch of the gun, I plucked it off the artillery wall and looped my finger into the trigger-guard, corkscrewing it cockily around my finger. Outstretching one arm, I aimed down the alley, a smirk on my face and an eyebrow raised to her with an insinuation of a challenge.

I fired.

What I didn't account for was the recoil.

~

A bludgeoned bloody nose and a bulbous black eye later, I was pinching the bridge of my nose, congealed claret having drizzled onto my tabard. Cotton buds were dipped in alcoholic-reeking antiseptic, and the gash at the top of my nose, attended to.

I was perched on the bed usually reserved for unconscious patients, eyes watering over the split skin at the ridge of my nose. I winced as the steriliser bled into my wound and stung my bloodstream.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Bobbi wailed at me, carding a fretful hand through her hair. She looked like she would've pummelled me were I not already beat. "You're lucky you got away with only a black eye, cracked cartilage and a concussion!"

"I 'unno..." I hissed as the doctor retreated, a bowl of copper tinged antibacterial cupped in her hands, ruby-stained cotton swabs soggy in the concoction. "You got a plaster?" I requested, eying the green box with the white cross stamped on it, from which the nurse had ministered all the medical miracles so far.

"A plaster?" The nurse replied, her kind old eyes flashed with confusion.

"Yeah..." I slurred drowsily. "For my nose..." I gestured to the split skin, scarlet at the seams.

"If you wish, son," she replied, reluctantly handing me the cardboard box.

I picked apart the lid and slipped a packet free. With a nimble fumble, I picked apart the wrapping and pressed the plaster onto my bloodied nose, the pressure sending a shot of pain though my skull.

I tilted down my head again, only for two scarlet droplets to race from my nostrils to my lips, and I could taste the coppery tang seeping into my mouth. I smeared them away with a piggish wipe on the wrist.

"You look ridiculous," Bobbi scolded as I animalistically wiped away the blood. "What were you even trying to achieve..?" She breathed, hanging her head.

Never let it be said that Clint Barton is a coward. "Trying to impress a pretty girl..." I retorted with a wry laugh. "Did it work?"

She shook her head with a sulking look, then snorted. "You're a push over, Barton..." Then a smirk subtly formed on her lips. "But a rather adorable one."

And with a peck on the cheek, she left me in the hands of the nurse.

A/N - This is going to be a long one: hold onto your hats kids, it's been a fortnight, time for my emotional backlog.

Sorry I haven't updated so much as of lately, my personal life has been hectic. If you do want to keep posted with when I'll be updating etc. I'd suggest following me. The long and short of it is this: I've been up to my eyes in essays - I did seven last Sunday alone - and have had a tonne of books & textbooks to read for school. I'm still learning to balance the AS Level workload.

The reason I didn't update this week is because a friend of mine passed away last Saturday, and I've honestly been distraught. Usually I emulate that emotional turmoil and dump it in my writing, but the indomitable gloom has rendered me incoherent. All truth told, it's the first time in living memory I've lost someone; though we weren't best buds, I had lessons with the kid in question for five years; and I'd never known him to be anything but cheerful and hilarious. What's worse, was it was a suspected hit and run; so his loss was abrupt and unforeseen: it wasn't like a predictable terminal illness. So I suppose the correct terminology is 'killed'; but that's hardly displaying any acumen or respect. So sorry for my lateness on that front, but hopefully I've established a sense of mutual understanding.

In other news, I saw 'The Martian' and 'Macbeth'. If you're thinking about seeing either: do. They're both staggeringly good. No spoilers; the cinematography and symbolism in 'Macbeth' is like living portraiture, and even with the Shakespearian language, it's enjoyable! 'The Martian'; outstanding CGI, and as a music nerd, I loved the soundtrack! If you haven't read the book, do that also!

I'm going to have even less time on my hands because I scored a role in a performance of 'Oliver' at my local district theatre, and in 'Macbeth' in school for an upcoming country-wide drama festival.

Also, new school, new boys. And I am crushing harder than a twelve year old girl. He's the archetype 'not like other boys', and he is literally my Charles Xavier. Literally. Except he's tall, McAvoy is titchy (sorry)!

A thanks goes out to my cousin myalias as usual for letting me throw ideas at him.

A shoutout to JustLettingGo who has just started writing a new book: 'The Formulaic Files' ( https://www.wattpad.com/173356864-the-formulaic-files-chapter-1 )! If you're familiar with her already, you'll know she's an incredible writer, and she's also one of my best friends. It's set within the same universe as her Iron Defender Trilogy (which if you haven't read, why? Do it.) and it features two new S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents - Sydney and Allison - and what misadventures they get up to. I can promise you it's stupendously good already, and is only going to get better (writer's honour, I won't spill!). But hey! Don't just take my word for it, go read it!

On this chapter: Yes, that is Ant-Man, yes, I am alluding to his wifebeating anger-issue tendencies, and his now dead wife. Anyone spot that? The Hartley in question is the one from 'Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.' Season 2, 'gratz if you noticed that! What's more: Hawkingbird; thoughts?

This book reached the rank of #161 in fanfiction, thank you all so much! Let's see if we can get it higher! We've also broken 80K and 90K, and are fast approaching 100K; let's keep rolling! I'm also not far from 900 followers, let's expand this army, I reckon we can smash it.

We're not far from 'Budapest' now y'all. I can practically taste it. Sixty-one, sixty-one, the chapter doth come. (Yes, a 'Macbeth' reference. Deal with it.)

Dedication goes to nightvving because she is a babe and you should all go and read her Kate Bishop fics!❤️ x

TL;DR - Stuff happened, good and bad. Films are good. Boys are even better. Inside comicbook references. Read JustLettingGo & nightvving 's books.

P.S - I know it's early, but it's Sunday somewhere in the world, right?