"What were you thinking, Clint?!" Kate roared the second she opened the door to see my battered face there.

"I saved the wedding! I don't know why you're so angry!" I retorted, standing petulantly in her doorway, my weapons dangling off my skinny and gangly frame. "You told me to do it!"

Her reaction was something I didn't see coming. She lowered herself to violence; and I didn't have time to gauge the incoming blow as she slapped me across the face and my head veered off to one side. I was wordless for a moment and I clutched my throbbing cheek, heat flaring at the impact.

"Have a read!" She hollered, stuffing the New York Times into my hand. The front page story was not about the stock markets that day, but about the 'Robin Hood of New York' - 'Saving the rich and saving the poor'. "And that's not the only one, Clint!" She hissed, and a crumpled copy of the Daily Bugle was thrust into my grasp. 'The Boundless Bowman' was the headline, and a blurred photo of me in the church was splashed across the cover in black and white ink.

She may have found it all kinds of offensive, but I wanted to tear those newspaper covers out and pin them to my bedroom - the living room - wall. I mean, it wasn't every day that you made the cover of the newspapers; especially during the Cold War; it was all 'Cuban Missile Conspiracies' this 'Assassination of JFK' that.

"You think this is a bad thing?!" I yelped, a pitiful noise to rival that of the whining pup that had padded loyally to Katie's side; still bandaged like a patient at Bedlam.

"Yes, Clint! I think this is a very bad thing! You're getting yourself wrapped up in the crime scene of New York City: mobs, organised crime rings and international trafficking kingpins. You have no idea what you're trifling with!" She gritted, mussing her hair as she tried to comb the stress strands back into some form of order.

Deep down under all of that fury, there must've been concern. Kate could never remain livid at me for long.

"I'm a hero!" I disputed. Because that was the gospel truth... To me, anyway.

"No, Clint! You're delusional and a thrill seeker!" She returned. "You aren't in the circus anymore. You aren't going to get applauded for vigilantism! The media may love you, but that's because they're raking in the bucks at your expense, the authorities by no means are going to covet you with such idolatry!" Kate's eyes had bloomed with distress, and her cheeks flushed with an inkling of anger. But I could see in the waxiness of her complexion, her bloodshot eyes with their dark circles and her undernourished appearance that her behaviour owed to something more.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your sister, really, I am-" I placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it with reassurance. "But can't you see? I'm saving people, Kate! People like your sister! I'm doing good!"

My newly claimed pup looked greatly addled by the whole palaver: making sobbing and mewling noises akin to that of a new-born; nuzzled into me as some form of refuge. Lucky's tail was strung between his legs at all of the arguing and his frame trembling.

"You weren't fast enough to save Susan!" Kate slapped my hand away. "And if you're not careful-" her voice cracked in her throat. "-and you mess with bad people; you're gonna end up just like her!" Then slammed the door in my face.

Lucky barked with the fright of the sudden clap of noise and I felt the draught of air brush me as I was locked out. The tiny golden ball of fur was quick to bury its head into my calve and latch onto me with its claws.

"Kate!" I called, pounding my fist on the wood. "Katie, c'mon!" I hammered insistently; unignorably.  "Kate, don't be like this." I was persistent, until my knuckles began to tingle with the bruising from knocking so ardently. I slumped against the wood; resigned to the fact she was going to ignore me until she was in a better state.

But I couldn't blame her for her resentment. She had suffered another crippling blow, and I'd waltzed in and made the headlines like there was no tragedy behind the heroism.

Still armed with my kit from the previous night, I looked down at my dwindling wares in dire need of replenishing and the soppy puppy at my feet and decided we'd for a shopping trip. "Walkies, Lucky! Walkies!" I clapped enthusiastically, my euphoric voice feigned only to lighten the mood of the adventurous dog and set off: counting on Lucky not bounding off down the street since I had no lead.

It only took a trip to the local library to obtain a copy of the flimsy-paged tome known as the Yellow Pages. I scoured the directory for a very specialist entry; and being such a colourful and multi-cultural city, I found the address of an archery store. It wasn't too far to wander, but I was mindful of the stubby legs on the fragile puppy and how his reserves of energy were limited.

How wrong I was.

Even still beaten and battered from the car-crash ordeal, Lucky was raring to explore every nook and cranny of the city, bounding between pedestrians on the sidewalk to get a whiff of every passing smell and a good gander at every sight. Lucky's energy had no bounds, and as my legs tired, Lucky remained more hyperactive than ever. Every now and then I'd have to snag him by the scruff of his neck and apologise to the poor person that Lucky nearly knocked over or cut across - in his playfulness, completely unmindful of his surroundings.

I couldn't blame him; New York City was an exciting place - I still stopped to admire the view off Brooklyn Bridge when my wanders took me that way, to watched the traffic on the Hudson bob about by the docks. It was a city of such liveliness and it never stopped or slept.

We eventually came to the shoddy shack down the shifty alley that passed as an excuse for an artillery hardware store, across the front of the shop 'Loxley's Rangers Wares' was projected into the dank light by a neon sign; some of the bulbs of which had gone caput over time. The name, of course, was referencing the great 'Robin of Loxley'; myth or not, still debated.

"Can you stay here for me, Lucky?" I asked, petting the pup vigorously. "Can you? Will you do that for ol' Clint?" And in assent the golden retriever yapped before sitting on its hind legs, tongue hanging out in the summer humidity.

The shop was a dismal excuse for an archery arsenal, but it was the only one within decent range. The walls were slopped with grey paint, flaking in areas, inconsistent in others. The lighting barely rivalled the light from the alley beyond the door and grubby windows, flickering irritatingly in one corner. The place was crammed with shelves for basic equipment, and cabinets housed the more specialist items. Targets hung on the back wall behind the till, almost in replacement of any posters or portraiture to liven up the grey space.

The most off-putting thing of all was the lingering smell of body odour and stale cigarettes, emanating, I'm sure from the till operator: a middle aged man with a bushy moustache wearing a plaid shirt.

"What d'you want, kid?" The shop runner asked.

I waved my bow and near empty quiver. "Archery supplies," I quipped, as if it wasn't obvious enough.

There were probably regulations on who could own archery equipment in New York City - after all, it was indeed a weapon I was handling, even if it was in sport. Then again, the shop looked so worn down and I was the only customer; I didn't think my custom was going to be turned down any time soon.

"Feel free t'browse our selection of arrows, or whatever y'need..." He drawled, but then his eyes locked onto the newspapers tucked under my arm. "You been readin' 'bout that vigilante bowman? The one at the Bishop wedding?" He asked conversationally.

I smirked and continued to peruse the armoire of weaponry, weighting the arrows in my hand and measuring them up against the bow. "I may have been. I heard he's just a teenager too."

The shop keeper gave a rough laugh that put me in the mind of a bear, or perhaps some other graceless grizzly creature. "I'm callin' bullshit."

I tried not the let the blow to my ego show on my face. "Why?" I quirked an eyebrow, finally finding a type of arrow that was to my length and weight specifications. I slotted it against my bowstring as I prospected the notch at the butt of the feathered shaft.

"I ain't seen many adults that can aim and hit as accurately as that! And you're tellin' me some teenager has just decided to become New York City's latest super hero? Nah - this is the real world, son... We don't live in a myth or a comic book," he chortled, shaking his head. "Say, if you're done with those papers, would y'mind lendin' me them to read?" He proposed more politely as I gathered up a stock of the perfect arrows. "I don't get much custom in here and I could do with somethin' to pass the time."

I placed the armada of arrows on the title and smiled rigidly up at the cynical employee of the shop. "Gimme a discount, I'm sure we could come to some kinda agreement," I suggested, and the man stood in thought for a couple seconds before nodding. "Who do you think the master archer is then?" I asked, resisting the urge to snicker as I bigged myself up.

"My money's on one of the circus freaks from that Carnival on Central Park that left a week ago." I probably would have commented on how astute and assertive he was if it weren't for endangering my secret identity.

Really Clint? Secret identity; jeez, fame was translating to vanity way quicker than I realised. "Word had it they had some kinda archer in their show who was kicked from the roster at the last minute."

I inwardly chuckled at that, and simply smiled innocently outwardly.

The guy totted up the fee for the arrows and then spat out an eye-watering sum. Having still got remnants of money from designer suit shopping the previous day, I pulled the wedge of bills from my pocket and dished out the necessary amount from the clip - shocking the bloke behind the till that such a scrawny street-urchin could be in the money. All truth told, the smallest portion was actually mine; but that was something I was going to keep to myself.

"Any theories yourself, kid?" The guy probed, handing me the receipt and chattering as I loaded the arrows into my quiver.

"I have a few..." I smirked. "Pleasure doing business," I told him, handing him the papers with the headline news on the archer - me - in trade for the money off he'd so willingly deducted.

I pivoted and made my way out of the shop, but as the door slowly closed on its hinges - slowed by the safety latch affixed to it - I turned and called out. "Hey!"

I couldn't resist a reveal.

The thing is about a secret, is that from the moment you have it, you're aching to spill it. Plus, I felt like I had to prove a point to the ignorant adult.

I fired off one arrow through the gap, narrowly missing the shop runner who cussed and cursed, leaving from behind the till to knock some sense into me. But he was frozen still when with a tiny pause to aim, I fired another arrow in just before the door clicked shut and split the previous arrow down the middle of the shaft and buried in the remnants in true Robin Hood style.

That should've proved a point: teens could he heroes too. Their own heroes. Adults aren't made for saving the day and aren't always there to do so; sometimes you've gotta be your own hero, the one you desire to rescue you from your troubles. Because everyone has it in them to be the cure to their own troubles: whether they know, or believe that, yet; or not.

"C'mon, Lucky!" I said in a spritely fashion, goading the dog into action.

The man in the shop was gawping; I saluted him before dashing off into the dark alley and out of sight with my dog.

~

Figuring pizza was as good a peace offering as any, and I'd drastically messed up getting one last time, I stopped by the local parlour to pick up our shared favourite to bring home to Kate.

Again, the strangled trained pup sat at my command outside the shop, staring giddily in through the window at where the mouth-watering smells were wafting from and the pizza was being rolled and baked.

Awaiting my order which I could smell sizzling away in the back of the pizza place, I heard a sudden distinctly recognisable voice, obnoxiously obtrusive enough even to be picked up by my ears, which really sucked at being ears. Ask yourself this: how many Russians live in your local neighbourhood... And hang around pizza places at that?

"Hey, bro - isn't that your dog?" One eastern European voice called, not a care for the quiet of the neighbourhood.

"Yeah, bro... I think it is!" Replied the voice from a few evenings ago and two tracksuit draculas swaggered into sight.

"Why don't you take it?" A third voice encouraged.

"Dog looks useless for dog-fights now, bro!"

I deserted the pizza; more pressing things were at hand. Yes, before you ask; there really are more important things than pizza sometimes. 'More pressing things' being: a bunch of thugs after my pup.

Too furious to have any sense of self-preservation, I stepped out and called them out. "Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size!" I threatened, pacing out, my weapons barely concealed from sight.

The three Russian men in their matching red tracksuits laughed up what was essentially me throwing down the gauntlet. Trite as the line was, it was all I had; everything I knew about being a hero came from a James Bond movie. And it sounded cool enough, even if the conversation didn't open with 'Mister Barton, I've been expecting you' as my antagonist counterpart revolved to face me on a chair, stroking an animal in their lap.

They weren't going to be getting their hands on any animals, any time soon if I had anything to do with it.

"Back down, bro. You don't know what you're getting yourself into," the biggest and widest of the trio told me exactingly.

"That's where you're wrong... You don't know what you-" I retrieved my bow and extended it to its full size. "-are getting yourself into."

The group chuckled again, before one piped up. "Aw, look at the kid, he wants to play dress up and pretend to be the Robin Hood of New York!"

Checking my surroundings for witnesses - I reached into my quiver and quickly fired off a shot, shooting the abuser of the dog in the shoulder with an arrow; pinning him to the nearest wall. He yelped and wailed, writhing where he was stabbed through with the arrow.

"What were you saying?" I repeated. And it felt like justice. I felt empowered. I felt bigger. Better.

One of the Russians had the sense to flee, whilst the other remained to fight.

"Help! Help me, bro! Do something you moron!" The injured Russian crowed as the remaining threw a punch at me.

I dodged the clumsy swiped and elbowed him in the solar plexus, causing him to double over. It was a crafty knee to the groin and a cosh with the brunt of the bow that floored the man eventually though. He writhed on the ground, clutching his manhood, whimpering and wailing.

I was slick and lethal as I struck, not wasting time, but keeping the showmanship learned with my trade at the circus.

What was a hero without a cheesy one liner?

I loaded my bow and pointed it at him. "Just remember, next time you want to terrorise a defenceless creature - I'll be watching. And I'll be waiting."

"Who are you?" The Russian with the impaled shoulder managed to wheeze between sobs of agony.

I paused. I thought. I spoke. "My name's Hawkeye - don't you forget that."

For good measure I removed the remaining rope arrow from my trick arrow collection and shot it high up into the eaves of a nearby building. It smashed through a window before the grapple tip of the arrow locked into place. I scooped up my appropriated puppy and pressed the reel button on the bow, slingshotting me and the dog up to the top floor of a nearby abandoned apartment block and away from danger. A memorable exit to be sure.

Too memorable as it later turned out.

There's truth, as they say, in the fact that violence is a natural aphrodisiac; it's the adrenalin, I think. It felt good taking my anger out of the awful people in this world. It made me feel good. I allowed myself to feel what I'd been choking down and repressing for so many years.

Did I see a sliver of my father and brother in myself? Yes. But I would always flush that thought out of my head before it corrupted my core. I was better them, wasn't I? The violence I committed had a moral code; rhyme and reason. It wasn't offensive either, it was defensive. It was so people like me didn't suffer at the hands of people of the likes of them. I couldn't believe for a second that I was anything like them in how I operated: that would be my undoing.

But I could only take the law into my hands for a limited amount of time and remain unchecked.

Dammit, Barton, you dum-dun! You forgot the pizza. Again.

A/N - It's too early for me to form a coherent thought to be frank, but I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. I wanted to point out some real world truths about the nature of vigilantism and the fact that Clint does run out of arrows.

Dedication later!