New York City was nothing like I'd ever seen before.

My brain struggled to comprehend the actual scale of what my eyes were seeing.

The buildings were monolithic. I had to crane my neck to absorb the full stature of the building, and the sun formed blinding halos around the tops of the silhouetted skyscrapers. The faces of the towers were a mosaic of reflective panes of glass, the windows to big in their numbers to count. Hundreds of those castellated spires were crammed onto every street.

The buildings were branded with names such as 'Roxxon Energy Corporation', Stark Enterprises – and the one that really caught my eye – 'Bishop Publishing Firm'; I made a note of the location of that particular building.

The roads of New York City, as I then discovered, were prone to gridlock. The boulevards and avenues were choked with traffic; the toots of horns and revving of engines deafening even to my deaf ears.

The stench of car fumes, the odour pee-soaked garbage baked in the summer sun, and the smell fried grease and fat of fast food outlets hung in the air; a bizarre and unpleasant concoction of smells.

It was there, surrounded by such alien surroundings, that I realised just how far from Iowa I had trekked, and consequently, just how out of my depth I was.

Our barrage of vehicles travelled in tow, weaving between the congestion on the way to Central Park. After nauseatingly swerving around bends and jumping across junctions, we finally pulled to a halt inside the park, ambling over the uneven terrain.

The second our feet touched the ground, we began to set up camp for the biggest date in the Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders tour.

Politely letting my fellow carnies out of the vehicle prior, I disembarked and joined the crew on the green to assemble the circus.

Orders were being barked in tandem by Jacques and Mister Carson, and people scurried about like ants amongst the unmowed grass, tending to their demands.

Lining up to be given instructions of my contribution to the construction of the carnival, Jacques gave me an unsettlingly broad smile and he took me aside with an arm around my shoulders. His arm felt more like a wrestler's wrangle than a cuddle of camaraderie.

"Biggest date in the calendar, Hawkeye!" He announced, an arm panning to our surroundings; rich emerald green planes, trimmed hedges and clusters of trees. "New York City, the biggest and richest of crowds!"

We took a stroll up the gravel path that trailed through the pasture, dodging the oncoming procession of people. Squirming under the weight of Jacques arm, I drunk in my surroundings.

Beyond the island of lush and flourishing greenery – in full bloom in the summer sun – there was the grey sprawl that was the city; the skyscrapers looking like a concrete fence bordering the park. At eye level, I could see the mouth of streets that lead into the labyrinth of roads and islands.

"You're the headline act!" He chuckled. "You nervous, my boy?" The words were endearing enough, but his tone was as deceitful as a serpent; and I saw right through his guise.

Feeling contemptuous, I snorted, only to receive a look of disdain from my mentor. "I've braved far more petrifying things than a few people cheering for me." I realised how arrogant I seemed when Jacques narrowed his puny beady eyes.

"Mm," he hummed, his words reeking of disbelief. "Like your audacious little affair with the boss's daughter."

I stopped dead in my tracks, Jacques arm failing to lead my faltering feet onwards. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I blurted instantly. Denial of culpability was my first line of defence.

"You may be the one with vision of a bird of prey, but that does not make me blind, young one," he jeered. He gave a throaty laugh at how I had evidently blushed; I could feel the heat rising in the apples of my cheeks, burning right to the tips of my ears.

I was going to deny it for as long as I could. "Whatever you're accusing me of-"

He interjected before I could build a defensive argument. "Ah, so the red lipstick on your cheek came from Madame Mystery did it? Did you succumb to the charms of her palm reading and wrinkled face?" Jacques quipped, something malevolent about his laugh and the onslaught of his questions.

Jacques knew as well as I did that fraternising with Mister Carson's daughter was an offence punishable by exile. Or worse.

"No!" I spluttered inexplicably, crossing my arms tightly. "What does it matter to you?" I fired back, worming free of his grasp, knowing the danger that my relationship with Marcella could land me in. And like a fish in boiling hot water, I floundered and flopped.

Jacques was clearly amused by the whole ordeal, a sinister smirk etched onto his features. "I know your little secret, Hawkeye," he teased.

"And I know yours!" I spat brashly, my face heating up until I had rouged humiliatingly.

A silence drew between us that neither the birds tweeting in the trees, nor the chatter of the passing pedestrians could fill.

The humour drained from Jacques face, along with the cunning composure and the colour. "What secret would that be, Clint?" The use of my first name was the first clue that I was in jeopardy. "Everyone at this carnival has secrets."

"You more than most," I hissed, standing proud, standing tall, daring to stand in his firing line. I hazarded a guess that he wouldn't risk the publicity of hitting a minor in a public area; but Jacques stooped closer – those extra inches of height used to bare down on me. "I know what happened to Elsie Carson."

I managed to coax the wolf out of its sheep skin. With that one provocative statement, I was snagged by the collar and dragged onto my tip-toes. "You're a child, you know nothing. You didn't even know the bitch!" Jacques hissed, phlegm flicking from his lips as he spoke, showering my face.

My eyes widened at the admission. "A bitch, was she? Is that why you..?" I raised an eyebrow to him, and watched the panic spread across his face.

"Is that why I what?" Jacques played the denial game almost as well as I did, except his voice quivered. Whether that was with rage or uncertainty I wasn't sure.

"You killed her. You killed Elsie Carson." He froze, and his hand twitched where it had my collar bunch up in his fist. "Deny it. I dare you. Prove to me there's someone else as skilled with a blade, and hateful of her at this circus."

Jacques opened his mouth to speak, his bottom lip jutting and quaking as he tried to summon words of deniability. Instead, he elected to remain silent. He threw me on the ground, grazing my elbows as they scraped across the path and bashing my head on the ground. As I peered up, he was already strutting away.

Guilty conscience.

~

The knowledge that Jacques, my mentor, the man I had come to trust, was in fact a murderer wasn't ground-breaking. In all honesty, it didn't come as a shock: violent natured, emotionally capricious and outspoken. But the confirmation of my suspicions was gutting. It felt like a blow to the stomach.

But sacrifices have to be made for love to prevail. Right? That's what happens in the movies. Everything I know about life beyond my limited experience of an abusive family and the circus comes from a movie. And if I had any hope of continuing my ongoing whirlwind romance with Marcella, I had to hold him at ransom. He knew too much, and having dirt on him was the only way to secure my future.

Or so I thought.

Knowledge like that rots you from the inside out. It corrupts you to your very core. Kissing Marcella after the show that evening, the only thing I could think about was that I had the ability to give her closure. I could solve the enigma that had taken its toll on her for two years. I felt guilt growing within me.

"You were amazing," Marcella husked, slightly breathless, her words lost to my mouth closing over hers. "A real superstar..." She breathed, hands tangled in my hair. "My master archer..."

Her glossy red lips didn't remain against my own that night. They danced along my jaw, awakening me to sensations I didn't know existed. And after they'd teased my skin with feather light touches, her teeth clasped my earlobe; jerking a moan from my throat. And at that moment, all guilt and sense was erased from my head.

I was startled by how wanton I sounded, never before had I made such an admission of... Lust.

Her lips then skittered down the column of my throat, laving my skin and breathing hot and moist open mouth kisses onto my skin – now alive with sensation. Her mouth latched onto the junction where shoulder met neck and she began to suck a hickie into my skin.

I threaded my fingers through her hair reverently, head thrown back to the starlit sky, biting my bottom lip to suppress the sounds threatening to spill from me.

And somewhere between more impassioned kissing and some less-than-innocent rutting, I scooped her up, linked her legs around my waist and carried her back to my caravan, having her giggle the whole way, even as I dropped her back onto her feet to undress.

I still remember the boyish awe as I saw a girl undress for the first time, all sweeping curves, silky skin and dulcet tones. I remember having the breath siphoned from my lungs at seeing the natural beauty usually cloaked by clothes. And she looked divine, like one of those Grecian statues with porcelain skin, and waves of hair that fell naturally like a waterfall with smooth edges that broadened and dipped carelessly.

The deed itself is something I don't remember much of, besides seeing her glazed gaze, parted lips and slack jaw, accompanied by writhing in the throes of pleasure and laboured breathing. Though supposed by many an indecent act, sordid, lewd; it was quite the opposite. But all of the thrills, romance and pleasure was cut short in an instant.

The door slammed open and Jacques followed by Mister Carson burst into the trailer.

"I told you..." Jacques drawled with his thick French accent, as aloofly and regally as ever.

Marcella squeaked and squirmed and drew the duvet up over the pair of us, seeing the two men who had walked in on us.

"You! Boy! Get the hell outta here, right now!" Mister Carson yelled and I scrabbled about under the sheets and fumbled nakedly onto the floor, my bare bottom on show to everyone.

"This is my caravan!" I protested, snatching my performance overalls from the corner and clutching them to my nude body in an attempt to conceal my destroyed dignity.

"Not anymore, it ain't!" Mister Carson bellowed. "You filthy little runt! You deflowered my little girl!" He ran at me, but Jacques held him back, reigning him in like a barking dog; it almost made Jacques look impartial. It painted him like the good guy.

"I didn't deflower her!" I yelled back. "She deflowered me if anything!" Those words made my cheeks bloom into colour.

Jacques tried to reason with the brute. "Sir, I think it would be best if the boy collected his things and left. If we could do this tidily-"

"No! He ain't leavin' here without retribution! For what he did to Marcella!" There were tears forming in Mister Carsons eyes, and he looked to his daughter who had cocooned herself in a nest of sheets, eyes averted and head hung in shame.

"Marcy tell him!" I protested, gesturing to her, but she just tucked up into a tighter ball and curled onto her side. "Tell them that you wanted this! That you started this!"

I struggled to pull my clothes on in a hurry, and I managed to pull on the leggings and tabard without much hassle or much more clumsy nudity. I tucked my knee high boots under my arm and cowered in the corner.

"You're fired, Hawkeye! Fired, you hear me?! Grab what you've got and scram! I don't ever wanna see your face again, you filthy gypsy urchin!" Mister Carson hollered abuse, and wriggled and fought as Jacques held him back.

"Sir!" Jacques reasoned, his voice calm as ever, a vengefulness about his dark eyes.

Rather scared I might get a beating after avoiding it for two years, I stuffed my pay – well, loot – into a nearby pillowcase, snatched my bow and arrows and hot-footed it out the door. "I've done nothing wrong! I'm not the bad guy!" I reasoned, raising my voice to be heard over Mister Carson spewing imaginative strings of abuse.

"Who is the bad guy?!" Carson snapped, struggling to break free of Jacques hold and balling his fists.

But I pivoted on the steps out of the caravan. "Jacques killed Elsie," I told Mister Carson definitively. "He murdered her in cold blood!" I squeaked, looking the swordsman directly in the eye. "And I'm a villain for falling for your daughter!"

Fury spread across Mister Carson's face. "How are you mention my wife! How dare you insult my ringleader! You little oaf!" I was blindsided as he headbutted me, knocking me onto my ass on the grass below.

"Get outta here!" Was all I heard as I stumbled to my feet and ran in the opposite direction.

I scrambled away clutching a throbbing eye, that was bound to puff up and bruise come the daylight, and dashed across the grass, bootless, with only the clothes on my back and the items on my person.

A/N - Clint lost his virginity, wahey! Sorry for the lack of smut; but I cannot write it to save my life. Hopefully this was a tidbit more tasteful too!

This is just one of ten chapters I managed to throw together when I had no wifi! So, I have divised a game: This chapter gets - what's reasonable? - fifty votes, and I will give you a bonus chapter before Wednesday (which is my birthday coincidentally!). If that's too much, or met too soon, I may use a different target for the next chapter! 

This chapter is probably not as good as usual; but I had to depend entirely on my own lexis to craft this part. And without having the "synonym *insert word here*" function to hand, consequently the language may be a bit bland in this chapter.

Dedication goes to stilinski_please! x