Barney's announcement of enrolling felt like a punch to the stomach. All the air was driven out of my body and my mouth gaped in pain. Instantly, tears brewed in my eyes, tears I valiantly strove to hold back.

"You can't just leave me here! Join the army and pretend you don't have to look after me-"

"I don't!" Barney roared, and hurled the empty bottle of whiskey at me in contempt. Ducking, it smashed just above my head, showering my pillow and mattress in specks of glass and some larger chunks too. Remants of whiskey drizzled down the wall and a few droplets were dabbled across my bed. "That's what you can't seem to get into your thick skull, Clint! I'm not ma' and pa'; I don't have to look after you! You're not a baby anymore! No one's gonna look after you but yourself!" Barney rolled over onto his side, sulking in a drunken stupor.

"So, what? You're just gonna ditch me? Here? At the orphanage?" I breathed, Barney finally looking away I allowed myself to cry.

"I need money, Clint!" I could barely make out his words. "I need a life beyond you! You're not my priority," he grumbled, his slurred words muffled by the pillow he was nuzzled against.

"That's not fair!" I protested, wiping the glass off my bed and successfully managing to impale my hand on various particulates.

"Life's not fair!" He turned around to face me, scowling, blobs of spit flying from his mouth as he spoke. "And if you don't like the way I'm treating you, fuck off! See if I give a shit?! My life would be a helluva lot easier without you!"

I just nodded mutely, a crestfallen expression across my tear-soaked face.

Barney passed out in a drunken stupor that evening, drooling against the misshapen pillow. The stench of whiskey fast filled the room and gusts of air were coming in through the old window. With nothing but muslin hanging in the window as a curtain, punctured with holes, I could see the lights of the city on the horizon.

Through teary eyes, I could see the lights of the carnival.

I swore I could almost make out the music from this distance. At the very least, I could see the crest of the big-top through the window; a tent of red and white canvas, striped, peaked. It was so full of life, so full of colour, so full of excitement.

If you don't like it, fuck off!

You're gonna run away from your problems now?

What you gonna do? Run away?

That was it. That build up of guilt in my head, the years of insults and abuse repeating on me, the utter inconvenience of my presence that tipped me over the edge.

Tiptoeing around Barney, I grabbed his Iowa Hawkeyes jersey, threw it on for warmth and snatched his wallet off the bedside table. Fanning through, there was nothing more than a few dollars, but it would do for a few stalls and a drink.

I was light on my feet as I walked past his bed and over creaking floorboard; checking each one before I put weight on it. Tentatively, I found my way to the window and lifted it open with a squeak. Barney snored obtrusively and then turned over.

Skinny as I was from malnutrition, I managed to squeezed through the gap and then scaled the ivy-draped wall to the ground. I landed with a small thud and there was no sign of consciousness from the room above; just Barney's bearish snoring. I'm surprised he hadn't woken the whole building with it.

It was as simple as following the eruption of lights on the horizon. I wormed my way down a few dark alleys, ran across a few roads and then emerged in the field on the edge of town where the carnival was being staged.

Still, in the depths of the night, people were milling around.

The big wheel was rotating on the horizon, flashing bulbs and blaring music. Cotton candy stalls, hook-a-duck stalls and games of skill were dotted around. All of the features were in orbit of the central attraction; the circus.

Over the din that was audible even to my dumb ears, I could hear the pranging of cans. Over my shoulder, there was a stall where kids were challenged to shoot down stacks of cans with a toy pistol. Smugness lit up within me.

I sprinted over, dipping and darting between people and pushed my way to the front of the queue, much to the complaint of fellow customers.

"One go on the poppin jay please!" I requested, waving a dollar at the man serving.

"Y'sure kid? It's more difficult than I make it look," he'd said patronisingly, patting me on the head.

"Take my money, yeah, I'm sure!" He didn't have to be asked twice and plucked the dollar from my eager hands; replacing it with the toy pistol.

"You manage to knock down the whole stack with the three shots loaded in the pistol, you get a plushie. How about that, son?" The man asked, standing back with his arms crossed.

I scoffed. "Easy..." I stood back at the marking indicated and lined up the iron sight with my target, one hand over the other on the grip and steadied my breathing.

I popped the three shots in quick succession, aiming at places of structural integrity and sending the weighted cans toppling from the stack and onto the floor.

Aghast, the man handed me over one of the prizes displayed at the back of the booth. "You've got a talent there, kid... A real trickshot..." He turned away shaking his head.

I found that visiting the carnival, sans the deadweight that was Barney, was much more enjoyable. Rather than feeling like a leashed dog, I was free to do what I wanted. And what I wanted was to buy three bags full of cotton candy and stuff my face without someone telling me it would rot my teeth and make me sick.

A bag under each arm and one cradled in my hands, I rode the big wheel; seeing the run down town from great height and the sparkling lights of the carnival bellow; fanfares and amazing sights. Everyone seemed so small from that bit further up, like a Hornby Railway set, before I was lowered to their level again and they became ordinary size.

Just for a little while, that evening, everything was good in the world. A bag of cotton candy and a ride on the waltzers later, I found my way to the main attraction. Carefully slipping by the ticket man at the door to the tent, I found myself a seat in the bleachers where I had a good view of the ring and anticipated a great show.

After a short wait, the lights dimmed and a timpani roll started up. A spotlight flickered to life and out of the darkness stepped a man. Thin as twine and tall as a tree, he stood silhouetted with a rapier brandished in hand. "Come one!" He announced, twiddling with his groomed and greased moustache. "Come all! To the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders!" He announced in a thick french accent.

A roar of excitement went up in the tent, the voices sounding even louder in the enclosed auditorium of the tent. Loud enough for me to hear. And I bayed for thrills with them with half a mouthful of cotton candy.

"I am Jacques Duquesne! The swordsman! And welcome to my show!" Dressed in purple from head to toe, he gave an ostentatious bow.

The lights came up around him and all of the travelling circus wandered into the ring. Fire-eaters swirled around canes of flames and blew billowing clouds of fire toward the rooftop. Two trapeze artists swung from the perch way up above, hand in hand in skin-tight Lycra. Elephants and tigers were marched into the ring, all swarming around the ring leader.

The clapping and whooping only got louder and both children and adults alike got to their feet to cheer for the weird and wonderful sights.

After an initial introduction, The Swordsman dismissed them all and paraded around for the first act. The guy operated with so much finesse, it was hard not to admire him. He and another conducted a fencing match; the difference being, he stood on a tight rope whilst the other stood on the platform. He jumped and ducked and twirled, drawing fanciful patterns in the air with his flexing sword. He eventually put his competitor out of his misery with a jab to the chest, sending him toppling back gracelessly.

But that wasn't all the aptly named Swordsman did. He had people throw various things at him and he carved them in half in mid air with precise swings of his blade. He slashed things in half as big as a watermelon as they were fired comedically out of a canon, and things as tiny as a walnut as they were thrown at him.

Effortless mastery of a weapon like that appealed to me. Sure, the sword was old fashioned, but that didn't make it any less deadly or any less useful. Not to mention it looked cool.

Plenty of other acts trotted on: wild beasts being teased and tamed. Fire-eaters pulling off daring feats such as juggling with it and guzzling it. Clowns, who made me more inwardly shudder than laugh. Who the hell decided clowns were for children? Not me.

Kate would've loved it there. We always said we'd go to the carnival in Iowa one year; but neither of us ever put the time aside or got together the organisation to attend it together. A shame, really. I thought of her briefly, wondering if she was thinking about me. Wondering if she even cared about me. I hoped so.

The sights and sounds and smells seemed neverending. And I didn't want them to end. I was living in a small moment of happiness.

But eventually, the show drew to a close and the night drew to an end. As people started filing out of the tent and away from the carnival, I felt a reluctance to leave.

What was left for me after an evening of such staggering enjoyment and fun? Going back to a desolate building with an abusive drunk of a brother who was going to desert me for the U.S. Army? No thanks. So I stayed at the carnival, even as the stalls were packing up and they were starting to dull down the music.

So I didn't go back to the orphanage. I snuck around the back of the big top, where all of the caravans were situated and found a comfortable plot of hay among the trailor that housed the animals. Staring up at the stars, I slowly drifted to sleep; listening to the throng of the carnival.

I was awoken the next day by the sound of a wooden hatch opening and a foot kicking the hay off of me.

"Oi! Wake up!" A boot in my side. "Up!" I struggled to peel my eyes open and squinted into the sunlight now bombarding my eyes. Bleary as it was, I could see two figures standing before me, eclipsed entirely by the daylight.

"It appears we have a stowaway..." A regal French voice drawled.

"What?" I grumbled. "Where am I?"

"Illinois... And I have a good mind to report you to the police for stashin' y'self away in here and tagging along! This isn't a taxi y'know?" I got a prodding with a boot.

"Wait! No! Please! I didn't mean to stowaway! Honest! I'll do anything! Please, don't send me back to Iowa!" I held up my hands, hay still bunched up around me.

The owner of the French voice, who I remembered to be Jacques, the ringleader, eyed me curiously. "Anything?" An eyebrow rose.

"Anything!"

"Little..." He awaited for me to fill the gap.

"Clint. Clint Barton," I blurted, still sat in a heap of hay.

"-Clint here might be of use to us," he conferred with his colleague, he offered me a hand up and hauled me to my feet. "Do you have any talents-" He brushed the hay off of me, and he read my shirt. "Hawkeye?"

"I've got good aim, if that helps?" I spluttered.

"My friend... You have no idea..."

A/N - I managed to put this chapter together after my flight on holiday and I think it turned out okay! So, Clint has finally obtained his superhero persona! Was it in the way you expected? I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Dedication goes to Kaitlin_DSouza! x