February 26, 1986

Clint Barton used his foot to draw a straight line in the dirt, perpendicular to where his target board was. The board cast a long shadow over his scrawny frame and made the dirt look several shades darker than it really was. It lightly swayed to and fro, the board being thin and scrappily constructed from old planks of wood.

He took his stance and whispered three familiar words to himself, "Nock, draw, loose."

He pulled the string back and let the arrow fly. Then Clint allowed himself to grin as he saw the fletching protruding from the middle of the wooden board — a perfect bullseye. He stood there for a moment, silently celebrating his small success, before walking across the grass and fallen leaves to collect the arrow.

Clint checked the arrow. Its fletching was grey, purple highlights mixed in on the outermost layer. The splintering wood of the shaft scratched his finger as he traced each line and mark etched across the surface.

In his other hand, he held a small black bow. It was thin but thick in the middle where an arrow would rest before flying into the near distance. A string extended from both the top and bottom limbs. Clint's hand sat upon the rubber grip firmly, the other extending out in from of him as he squinted towards the target board sitting about twenty feet away.

The wind blew fiercely. It whistled and howled like a wounded animal, doing its best to mess up the arrow's trajectory. However, Clint found himself completely ignoring it as he trusted his fingers to automatically adjust to the situation.

Just when Clint nocked the arrow and drew back the string, someone slammed into him.

He fell to the hard, unforgiving dirt, dropping his bow. The arrow went wide and loosely went down beside him. Clint felt a heavy weight pinning him down, the weight sitting upon his chest and making it a struggle to breath. Panting, he tried unsuccessfully to find his voice and raise a complaint.

"Good morning! I'm glad to see you awake," said the familiar voice of Jacques Duquesne.

"Jacques, it's actually noon," Clint croaked, his voice hoarse and thin under Jacques' weight.

He scratched his wispy goatee. "Wait, really? I think I had one too many last night... Anyway, Clint, what've you been up to?"

"I'd appreciate it if you get off me."

Rolling his eyes, Jacques got to his feet and reached down to pick up the arrow. A thick tuft of grass was stuck on the tip.

"Y'know," he continued, "swords are way cooler than bows."

"There's an expression: 'Don't bring a knife to a gunfight'," Clint defended himself weakly.

Jacques shrugged. "As long as you're quick with a blade..."

Clint snatched the arrow back, allowing the grass to fall back to the ground where he stood. The surrounding ferns had begun to gain a bit of color, having lost the green to the crisp winter. And yet, the yellow seemingly merged with the sun in the cerulean sky; there was no middle ground between the two forces of nature. It was simply color upon another layer of the same tint.

A shadow fell on Jacques — merely a result of the fluffy white clouds floating above.

"Well, you've been no fun, Hawkeye!"

Clint tried not to grow annoyed. He knew that Jacques was just trying to stimulate an angry response out of him. For whatever reason, he seemed to thrive in situations where there was conflict, even going as far as taking the trouble with him. It was inevitable. Clint could already see the image burning into his mind: Jacques laughing and taunting a poor soul of his choice as he downed another bottle of alcohol and entered the escapism brought on by intoxication.

In fact, Clint couldn't help but think that Jacques slightly resembled a devil. Only slightly, of course.

Jacques Duquesne had curly hair that was the color of freshly mined coal lodes. His eyes always held a certain gaze, unreadable emotions flickering past too quickly for Clint to discern anything specific. They seemed to cut through anyone's gaze like a knife burning electric-blue and cardinal-red on the edge. Jacques' face was a mask of sharp angles and a pointed jawline. Perhaps it would be considered good-looking if it weren't for the whole "devil-vibe" he had going on.

Clint smirked inwardly at his thoughts. Nothing about his own lightly freckled face and blue-grey eyes betrayed how he judged Jacques at times.

He lifted a hand and waved Jacques off. A moment's pause passed by before the older teenager, around the same age as Barney, staggered off with a limp being only barely present. The only reason Clint noticed was because he had been there first-hand when Jacques had landed on his right leg wrong, straining the muscles and causing the leg to throb and throb and throb on loop.

However, he called back, "At least your brother listened to me."

Clint froze, one foot already taking up his usual stance while the other hovered above.

He wanted to mention how Jacques' way wasn't right. It was immoral and wrong, and Barney might've been paying the price for that. At least, that's what Clint guessed happened to Barney... They never saw each other anymore...

"Nock, draw, loose."

Lifting the arrow up and drawing back the bow's string, Clint let it fly right into the outer ring of the target. The sharp sound of the impact rang in his ears with a satisfying echo.

He didn't smile this time. He knew it was also immoral and wrong to not pursue a truth disguised as lies — lies ready to topple and turn at every sign of movement. A tower needed structure to balance out the top; their game of mistakes had reached the top, but when would it collapse?

In Clint's case, the blame sat on him directly. He couldn't convince himself otherwise. After all, he kept silent and ignored whatever Jacques and Barney planned — even if the plan was flawed in more than one way.

Sighing, Clint made his way to the arrow on automatic. He picked it up, running his finger over the fletching again.

Maybe he should talk to Buck — another innocent-but-not-really victim of Jacques Duquesne.

Then again, Buck wasn't involved anymore. He moved along to other circus acts, past being the star pupil of archery and an apprentice to Jacques. Instead, Buck retired from his old role of Hawkeye. Now he was Clint's mentor. The circus still needed a Hawkeye to forerun the trapeze acts and truly draw in the audience watching from the sides of the ring.

He shot arrow after arrow, unloading his quiver into the wood. Clint didn't even bother with collecting each one after firing. He just decided to leave them there for later, as a tell-tale sign that he'd practiced a skill already nearing perfection. And yet, Clint could feel the same sickening thoughts pricking his mind — that maybe this whole thing was just another example of running from your problems.

Maybe he was just shooting an arrow that he would eventually follow, like an old story he'd once heard about in school, back when he still attended one.

The story had described a group of Native American brothers, the smallest being the smartest and most ignored of the entire tribe. He eventually grew tired and took to running. Faster and faster he ran, hoping for the day he would be able to outrun the village and find a new place for himself. He trained by shooting an arrow into the skies and stars above, then chasing it until he could go faster.

One night, he finally managed it. He shot the arrow and ran after it, outrunning the problems he faced and the tensions with his brothers.

Clint wondered if there was somewhere else for him. Somewhere away from being involved in a criminal scheme in a circus enveloped in shadows. And if there was, he realized with a start, that he was determined to find it.